


Physically, I'm Fine

by AprilKathryn



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Captain America AU - Fandom, Cop AU - Fandom, mafia AU - Fandom
Genre: Cop Steve, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Master/Slave, Multi, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-07-27 21:35:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20052892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AprilKathryn/pseuds/AprilKathryn
Summary: Female OC Kali is currently a slave for Male OC Anthony (inspired by Brock Rumlow). When mafia mob boss Alexander Pierce intervenes in his employee's poor behavior, gun for hire James Buchanan steps in to protect Kali. Can James and undercover detective Steve Rogers help Kali escape? Complete Work





	1. Chapter 1

I don’t think I remember life before him. If I concentrate, I catch a glimpse of an apartment with warm light flooding in through a large bay window. The smell of bread wafts around me as I sit on a dark wood floor. There’s humming from somewhere I can’t see and, though I look for the source, the soft edges of the memory block out whoever it is. It’s what I think of when I’m with him, that is when he forces me to be with him. Though it’s been a lifetime, I know the difference between a yes and a no. Other girls have been rewired to believe this is love, to believe this is how things should be between a man and a woman, but I know better. I was young when they took me into the program. To create life partners for men of power, they told me, and I expected...well, not this. I opened the door to men in suits, a woman in a tight dress and sweater between them. She had smiled at me warmly, gaining my trust, and explained she would be taking me to family in another state. The halfway house was happy to be done with me, a runaway with repeat arrests. No one had come looking for me until now. There wasn’t even signing of papers, which I remember thinking was odd, but I packed up the few things I had. A pair of sneakers, a skateboard, some t-shirts, and my mother’s pearl ring. The ring was the only thing they let me keep. It stayed around a chain on my neck, the one reminder I’d once had a different life. He let me keep it, saying it would remind me of how good I had it now I was with him instead of at the halfway house. I’d been twelve, maybe thirteen, when they gave me to him. He was kind in the beginning. I received nice clothes, a room of my own with its own bathroom and tv, as long as I followed the rules. He didn’t touch me until I was sixteen. I learned exactly what I was then. The gifts disappeared and eventually, he moved me to his “playroom.” A torture chamber of concrete and fetish furniture. One entire wall lined with whips, toys, and knives. I’d never experienced true fear until he shoved me into the cage. It was tall enough for me to stand, barely, with a cot low to the ground. A dirty, rough blanket the only creature comfort in the god-forsaken place, thrown haphazardly onto the cot. I asked what I had done wrong, why he had changed everything. He laughed.  
“This is what you are meant for. You’ve learned to obey, now you’ll learn how to please.”  
I’m holding on to the humming. The sunlight is warm on my young face. The bread…THWACK. The bread has butter on it. I can smell it and I’m reaching out for-THWACK. Noise escapes and he chuckles behind me. He’s almost against the opposite wall, a whip in hand, rearing back again. I’m frozen with restraints, suspended above the bare mattress and watching my blood drip down onto it. THWACK.   
It’s worse when you cry. It’s worse when you cry. It’s worse when you cry.   
Though silent, I can’t stop my tears from falling. Silent crying is better than noisy crying.   
“Have you had enough?”  
He’s next to me and I didn’t realize. He’s seen my crying. I’m dropped to the mattress with a thud. It’s been three days since he fed me. Raising my head makes the room spin and I squeeze my eyes shut to stop it. He pulls on my chain harshly, dragging me to the edge of the mattress and I hear him unzip. I don’t have to put in effort on this, the knowledge he’s able to have this control over me is enough for him, and I do my best not to breath too deeply as he thrusts forward. I gag a few times and he lets out a grunt, his hand yanking on the back of my scalp. He dyed my hair red a few months ago and has kept it that way. He says it reminds him of how fiery I can be. He surges forward and I gag again, the taste of him causing me to sputter. He holds me steady, quickening his pace as he spurts down the back of my throat. I dry heave around him, and he grunts again, finally pulling out of my mouth. There’s a string of spit attached to the tip which he wipes on my cheek. He pats the other cheek and wipes himself off with a washrag he keeps next to the mattress. He leaves me like this, head still spinning, and leaves. The metal of the door echoes in the room and I roll onto my side. I curl up, still attempting to cling to my bread smell memory. The room reeks of sweat and I reach to touch the open cuts on my thighs. My fingers come up with some blood, but most of it is dried crumbles. I find myself drifting in and out of hunger driven sleep. At some point, he returns, dresses my whip cuts, and leaves a peanut butter sandwich on the table next to the mattress. There are times he shows tenderness, but it’s only in my imagination does he actually care. I suppose since he’s put in so much work with my training another would be more of a hassle than it’s worth. It’s easier to control me if I’m a little out of things, which means food only comes every few days, but I can’t help myself and scarf down the sandwich. I drift back to sleep, stomach full for the first time in what feels like forever. I’m shaken awake to him standing over me. He’s sweating, a cold sweat which shines under the florescent lighting from above, and he pulls me up. It takes me a moment to process the things he’s saying. It’s rushed, but I manage to hear I need to get dressed. He takes me outside the playroom. The last time we did this was when he dyed my hair last, but that had been at least a month based on how faded it had become, but he doesn’t take me to the half bath with the stone floor. I’m pushed upstairs, my chain and collar removed, and he shoves me into an extravagant bedroom. He sits me on the bed and begins to pace, wringing his hands. I’ve never seen him like this.   
“You need to go into the bathroom. Shower, re-dye your hair, do makeup. I need you as presentable as possible. I’ll find some clothes for you.”  
I blink, not moving fast enough apparently, as he raises a hand.   
“Move!”  
I flinch and hurry into the bathroom. There are a separate tub and shower. Black tile lines the shower and reappears in the backsplash on the marble counters. Everything is white, pristine, and I notice the box of hair dye next to the sink. It’s dark brown, not red, and there’s a razor next to the box. Part of me screams and yearns to reach out for the razor and spill everything out onto the white backdrop. I shake away the thought and begin to run a bath. It’s hot, stinging my semi-open cuts, but I take a few minutes to soak before I actually clean myself. The soap smells like oranges and vanilla. I soak my hair in the dye before washing it in the shower. I shave with my legs and armpits. It takes a few tries to get the hair and I’m thankful the razor blade is new. A few nicks later they’re smooth enough to put lotion on. There’s a hairdryer in a pocket off the counter. I use it and brush out my newly browned hair. It’s the first time I’ve looked at myself for longer than a few moments in months. I’m thin, sickly and pale, with deep purple circles under my eyes. An array of makeup lays before but I’m not sure where to start. I haven’t worn makeup since before the playroom. I find a foundation and concealer which are slightly darker than my skin tone and blend them down onto my neck and chest. I suppose I’ll look healthier this way. I add blush to give my skin more life and for a moment I see the pre-playroom me in the mirror. My hands shake too much to wear eyeliner, but mascara and a soft lipstick complete the look. I open the bathroom door and poke my head out. He isn’t there, but on the bed is a stack of clothes. Black leggings and a crème colored sweater which is slightly too big. Simple black underwear, Calin Klein stamped across the band, a bralette to match, and fuzzy socks lay on top. I pull everything on and it’s all so soft I think I could cry. I peer out of the bedroom, not remembering exactly how I got there, and he is waiting outside. He smiles broadly at me, taking a stray hair and tucking it behind my ear.   
“I need you to be perfect for me for me today,” he says softly. I look up at him and nod silently. He places a hand in the small of the back, firmly steering me down the hallway and into an open living area. There are men sitting all around the room. I hesitate as we walk in, but he pushes me forward. He sits me away from them in a chair in the corner. I cross my legs and relish how plush the cushion of the chair is. One of the men stands and greets him.  
“Anthony! So good of you to join us!”  
Anthony?  
He smiles, a bit forced, and gestures my direction.   
“My apologies for keeping you waiting, I have to tend to my belongings before I can do anything else.”  
The man looks my way and I stare back blankly.   
“And wait for lovely belongings you have.”  
The man starts my direction and I see panic flash across Anthony’s face. The man comes to a stop in front of me and I continue to stare. He’s older, blonde with grey showing, and thick-rimmed glasses. He reaches out and grips my chin softly. I pull away instinctively and he raises an eyebrow.   
“It’s alright, I’m a friend of Anthony’s,” he gives me a toothy smile, “I won’t be hurting you.”  
There’s an air of knowledge behind the statement. Anthony is in trouble. They know what he’s done to me and he’s covering it up with this new treatment.   
“Stand for me, my dear, show me your place in this house.”  
I rise, shakily, and he takes my hand. He places me on his arm and gestures to the hallway.   
“Lead the way.”  
I look over my shoulder to him, to Anthony, and he nods slightly at me. I walk forward, pausing slightly at the door to the downstairs. Should I consider taking this man to the playroom? Would he only enjoy the things Anthony does? The pause is only a half-second, but the man notices.  
“Lost in your own home?”  
It’s a quip, meant to bait me, and it dawns on me this could all be an elaborate test. A plot by him-Anthony-to put my loyalty on trial. I shake my head and give the man a soft smile. I lead him to the bedroom I showered in.   
“This is all yours?”  
I nod.   
“Do you ever speak?”  
It had been so long since I’d tried to speak anything but a plea of apology or beg for mercy I lose track of exactly how to form other words for a moment.   
“Sometimes.”  
My voice is soft, crackled from the strain of Anthony’s playing, and the man straightens slightly at it. He glances at the door and then sits me on the bed. I brace myself for the worst, but the man kneels and gives me a hard look.   
“The things he’s done to you are not how we designed this arrangement to operate. Tell me, what does he do?”  
I swallow.   
“I’m content with my partnership.”  
It’s a phrase I was trained to say at the very beginning. He spent hours drilling it into me. The memory causes me to shake slightly. He’d chained my wrists and hung them from the ceiling until my legs gave out from exhaustion. I’d dislocated my shoulders when I slumped, and he reset them himself before continuing. The man sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.   
“Very well.”  
He takes me back to the living area, sets me down in the same chair, and then takes Anthony out the room in the opposite direction. Most of the men follow, but one stays behind, lounging on the couch. He’s sipping a beer lazily, letting the bottle all but dangle from his fingers. He’s got his feet up on an ottoman. His boots are fashionable combat style and they match the leather jacket he’s wearing. There’s overgrown stubble gracing his jawline, dark like his hair, and he catches me watching him. I look at my lap. He beer bottle clinks as he sets it down on a side table. His boots thunk on the ground as he comes up to me. His jeans are a dark wash and his t-shirt is wrinkled--worn-in, but in the most fashionable of ways. I continue to look at my lap. He plops down in front of me places his head into my lap to look at my face. I pull away, backing into the chair cushion, and he narrows his eyes slightly.  
“He’s done quite the number on you. I mean, we had some idea, but it’s pretty bad isn’t it?”  
I don’t respond. I don’t know what to say to him.   
He turns to rest against the wall next to me. His hair is done up on top, quaffed over in a delicate swoop, and he runs a hand through it.   
“I’m James, but everyone calls me Bucky.”   
Again, I don’t respond. Perhaps this is part of the loyalty test.   
“You can answer, you know, they’re not watching you.”  
I shake my head slightly at this one. He grins. The grin more prominent on his left side, as his right droops slightly. There’s a faint scar along his right temple which stretches down to his jaw.   
“Knife fight in Afghanistan.”  
I feel my eyes widen. Military. Ex-military? There’s chatter from the other side of the room as the other men file back in. Anthony stops short when he sees James-Bucky? -sitting next to me. The older man shunts him forward and Anthony crosses the room quickly to me. He steps over James and puts out a hand to help me up.  
“Love, head back to your room. I’ll come to get you when we’re done discussing business.”  
James snorts derisively under his feet. They share a tense look before Anthony guides me back to the bedroom.   
“You’ve been wonderful so far. Just a little longer and we can go back to our regular days together.”  
He kisses the top of my head and smacks me on the ass, hard. I jump, unprepared, and feel tears immediately prick in my eyes. I sink onto the bedspread as he leaves, and I kick myself for being dumb enough to think today was the start of some new treatment. This would never be my room, never my clothes, and so long as he got his way I’d never sleep in a bed again. I go to the window and lookout. Nothing but trees as far as the eyes can see. It’s a fiery collection of reds and yellows. There’s a latch on the window and I unlock it. There’s no screen. The roof slants out almost flat in front of me. Loud chatter from the other room spooks me and I turn to the door. It’s still shut. I explore the bedroom and find a pair of sneakers in my size. I look at the shoes and then back to the open window. I take a deep breath and put the shoes back where I found them. I re-latch the window and go back to sitting at the end of the bed. There’s a clock on the wall and I watch an hour pass. Then an hour and a half. Then two hours. At some point, I drift to sleep on the bed. It’s too soft to pass up and I let the plush feeling engulf me. A soft knock stirs me, but it’s not enough to completely pull me out of the sleep. The door closes with a soft snick and I open my eyes in time to see James standing over me. I put my hands up in defense, a reflex I’ve learned from time with Anthony, and James sighs.   
“That’s what I thought.”


	2. New Roosters in the Henhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kali learns how valuable she is to the boss's organization.   
TW: blood play, description of rape, general sexual violence

Despite the encounter, James and the other men leave sometime after they all eat dinner together. I’m served a plate in the bedroom and I’m surprised to see something other than a peanut butter sandwich. I suppose keeping up appearances would involve me eating the same good as him-Anthony. I remind myself I shouldn’t get comfortable with his real name. The few times he’s asked for a response I’ve been instructed to call him sir. The food is amazing, and I savor every bite, chewing it longer than necessary to hang onto it as long as possible. There are prime rib and mashed potatoes, both with garlic butter on them, followed by a dessert of chocolate tart with raspberries. I’m also brought white wine, which is sweet at first but burns a little at the back of my throat. My stomach bloats out at the sudden increase of food, and though it hurts from how full it is, I make sure to finish every bite. It becomes a waiting game after a house staffer comes for my dish. I consider asking when she thinks they’ll be done with their meal. She won’t meet my eyes when I thank her for bringing me the food. I didn’t know he even had house staff, but the way she refuses to look at me tells me she knows exactly where I usually live. Maybe she’s the one who makes the peanut butter sandwiches. Her hands shake as she takes the plate and I notice a rosary wrapped around her wrist. It’s made of pearls with small blue beads between each one. There’s an ornate crucifix tucked into it against her pulse point. She sees me staring and puts a hand to my forehead, mumbling softly in a language I don’t recognize. She leaves without another word or even looking directly at my face.   
He comes into the room an hour after the rosary woman leaves. I sit as still as possible, my heart jumping against my ribcage, and as the door shuts behind him I brace myself. His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, collar wrinkled, and his jacket has a tear in the lapel. His hair looks as though he’s run his hands through it at least twenty times and there’s dried blood at the corner of his mouth.   
“What did you tell him?”  
He’s on me before I can even react. His tone is flat, dangerous, and I close my eyes, so I don’t see whatever is going to come next. He has my hands above my head in a death grip and I squirm slightly.   
“What did you tell him?!”  
It’s a yell, tinged with desperation, with despair. His voice cracks on the last word, hands tightening to shake me in the last attempt at intimidation.   
“W-who?”  
He mocks me immediately.   
“Who? Your little friend, you were getting friendly weren’t you, cozying up together in the chair. James, you worthless- “   
He stops himself and lets go of me, stepping back.   
“Go downstairs. I have to deal with this mess you’ve created.”   
I don’t move fast enough, as he grabs me by my hair and yanks me off the bed. He doesn’t let go until we’re out the bedroom door and at the top of the steps to the playroom.   
“Go!”  
I wobble down, coming to a stop in front of the door, and I sink to the floor. His footsteps recede, echoing down the stairs, and everything crashes down on me. What had I done? Had my reaction to James been so horrible it had gotten him into such trouble with his boss? I try to stand but slip slightly against the concrete. I realize I’m still wearing fuzzy socks. I stare at my toes, wiggling them absentmindedly until I hear footsteps again.   
“I told you to go inside.”  
He’s nothing but a dark silhouette at the top of the steps. Fear ices over my body and I find myself rooted to the spot.   
“I ask you to do simple things. Simple things and you-you just can’t, or you don’t, just to spite me. I treat you so well and this is how you repay me? After everything I’ve done for you? I took you in when no one else wanted you. They begged me to take you and I, out of the good nature of my heart, took you and provided for you, but you-you just-you’ve taken it all for granted. Well fine, if you want to take advantage o the gifts I’ve given then I’ll just take them away. You’ll be begging me to go back.”  
He takes the steps slowly during the monologue, ending by thudding to the concrete in heavy boots. He’s got on a plain white t-shirt and cargo pants tucked into the boots. The blood from his mouth is gone, but I have a feeling I’ll have a mirror image of it soon enough. He grabs my hair again and throws me into the playroom. The door slams shut behind us as he descends. There’s the sound of fabric tearing, and I see my sweater tossed to the side. The leggings are next, shredded by a knife, and he pauses to look at his handiwork. I cower-it’s all I can do-and try to back away.   
“Oh no, you don’t. You come here.”  
He reaches out and I hold up an arm to shield myself. It’s a mistake, but I don’t think about it as he grabs it and pulls me in towards him. He pauses and takes a handful of my hair.   
“It looks better red.”  
He brings the knife up to my face and I think he’s going to cut me, but at the last second, he diverts and takes a chunk with the blade of his utility knife. The word slows for a moment as I watch it drop to the floor and it sounds like a bomb in my head as it hits the concrete.   
“Stay still and I might not cut you.”  
I shake my head subconsciously, reacting too slowly as I process what he’s saying.   
“No?”  
Energy is coursing in my veins again and I scramble away. My hair suddenly feels like the most valuable thing I have-the only thing I have. I manage to get to the bed frame where the mattress lays and I crawl under it. I’m against the wall in the middle, most importantly I’m out of reach. He’d bolted the frame to the floor to stop it from moving and I curl into the tightest ball I can, keeping every grabbable piece of me as condensed as possible.   
“If you don’t come out of there, I swear to God I’ll go get a gun and shoot you right there.”  
Good.   
I don’t budge. He sighs and I hear him leave. I rack my brain for bargaining chips to stop him from actually shooting me, but all I find is crawling out from under the mattress to face him. He’s back before I form a real rational thought and I hear him cock the gun. The mattress above me disappears and I’m scrambling again. I’m out from under the bed, red-faced and panting, completely unprotected.   
“I’m going to count to three. You better be over here, sitting still, or so help me- “  
“You won’t.”  
My voice is barely above a whisper, but he hears it nonetheless.  
“Oh? Do you think I won’t? Do you think I won’t have someone to replace you here within the next day? You’re more confident in your value than you should be.”  
He takes aim at me. I find myself welcoming the moment, the freedom it promises.   
“What did you say to James?”  
I’m thrown off by the question. I shake my head.   
“Nothing. Nothing to anyone.”  
“You’ve done something. They’re sending others here. To stay. I’m meant to share you.”  
Everything stops.   
I’m meant to share you.   
The words echo around me.   
Share.   
I’m sinking, knees slamming into the floor, but the pain doesn’t register.   
Share you.   
I realize I’m crying, mumbling over and over,  
“No. Please, no.”  
“They asked and you said nothing. They know you’re loyal. Now I have to- “  
I’m not listening. The memories of him breaking me in play over in my head. The days spent in a dog cage at the foot of the mattress, only released to be “played” with by him. Months of building up scars and pain tolerance. I’m sobbing now, beyond thinking of the rules he’s put in place. Years of anguish pour out of me as my chest heaves, the sounds echoing in the playroom. I should have gone out of the window when I had the chance.   
The men move in two days later. I’m kept in the bedroom and regular clothes during the process. James is there, watching me the entire time, as I get a feel for the other men. One is a short bald man with a beard, skin the color of a brown paper bag, with crooked front teeth. He constantly has a toothpick floating from one side of his mouth to the other. He tells me to call him Sean. The other man is tall, gaunt, with skin like paper. He has a large scar on his hand in the shape of an x. He touches me a lot and it’s enough to get on Anthony’s nerves. His name is Shaw. Anthony continues to dress me in the oversized sweater and leggings combo until the move-in is done. James sticks around until late into the night and I see him watching the men interact with me. It’s a nervous look, glancing around as though he’s being cornered and not me.   
“Pierce wants me to stay until the morning.”  
Shaw snorts,   
“Right. Shut up Buchanan, we get a piece of action tonight, not you.”  
He throws an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into his lap. The arm feels excessively heavy on my frame. He cups my ass and squeezes, smiling broadly.   
“That’s nice. That’s really nice.”  
His voice is low, gravelly, and I use all of my energy to refrain from grimacing.   
“I can’t believe you’ve been keeping this all to yourself.”  
Anthony broods at the end of the couch, Shaw moving me so I’m between him and Sean. Sean wrings his hands excitedly. He adjusts his reading glasses to look at my face. He puts my chin between his fingers and moves my head from side to side. I feel like a rat in a lab experiment.   
“Such perfect skin, even now, after all she’s seen.”  
He twiddles a pen in his hand, pulling off the cap and bringing it to my cheek.   
“Not her face.”  
Anthony snaps at him.   
“Never the face, you hear me?”  
He snatches the pen away and throws it across the room before going back to pouting. James attempts to extend his stay longer but Shaw and Sean usher him out the door. When they turn after locking it, there’s hunger written on their face.   
“Show us.”  
Anthony sighs and I hear his utility knife come out with a soft thwip. I find myself standing, backing away from the pair at the door and Anthony with his knife.   
“You didn’t tell me she was shy.”  
Sean licks his lips. I swallow and make my way along the wall to the bedroom I’d been staying in. If I lock the door, the window is still a viable option. Anthony waves the knife at me.   
“You know I don’t want you to get hurt right off the bat, but it’s time to show everyone how good you can be. Who knows, maybe we’ll all enjoy sharing you.”  
I’m shaking violently, stomach bubbling with nausea, and I feel the steps to the playroom start to descend behind me. Anthony advances, Shaw and Sean following suit, and I break into a sprint. I reach the door before him, but I’m not quick enough getting it open. One of the grabs my hair, pulling on it to drag me back, and I’m thrown over a shoulder. Anthony unlocks the playroom, and everything becomes a blur. There’s skin, laughter, and fabric hitting the floor. I’m restrained against the mattress as they huddle together to discuss. They’re matching outfits with the t-shirt and cargo pairing, likely Anthony’s doing. I struggle and Shaw throws something my way. It isn’t until it hits the wall above me I realize it’s a butterfly knife.   
“If you don’t stop that I’m going to split you up the stomach like a stuck pig.”  
I stop squirming and he chuckles, turning back to the others. Eventually, Anthony and Sean leave. Shaw takes his time coming to the side of the bed.   
“I know it’s a lot to get used to.”  
He flicks another knife, playing it over his fingers back and forth. He reaches out and flicks it against my upper arm. I gasp softly at the sudden cut and he smiles again. His teeth are grey and as he comes in close, there’s a distinct reek of cigarettes.   
“See, ol’ “Antoni” doesn’t have the knife skills I do, though he tries.”  
He flicks me again on the other arm. I gasp again.  
“The group calls me the Flayman. Do you know what flaying is?”   
I don’t respond fast enough, and he flicks my thigh with the blade. I shake my head.   
“See, you separate the skin from the rest while the person is alive. Bleeds a lot but it’s certainly an interesting healing process to watch.”  
He pulls the butterfly knife out of the frame above me.   
“Let’s see how well you heal.”  
I manage to stay in things for all of thirty seconds before I let out a scream. Shaw is at my thigh, carefully taking off a piece, and I keep going until my throat is too hoarse to continue. The cuts Anthony did were quick, shallow, as he got more out of the restraining and forcing. This is new territory, a new nightmare. Shaw takes identical pieces of each thigh, perfectly symmetrical, before wrapping them with gauze and an ace bandage. So clogged with tears, my vision is too blurry to actually focus as Shaw undoes the restraints. He takes me to the x board in the corner, strapping me up and running a hand along my ribs.   
“We gotta put some meat on your bones so we can really get into this.  
He takes two more pieces from my calves and delays the gauze wrapping. He rubs himself against me, then smears himself on the wound. It stings and I use what little strength I have to pull away. This only emboldens him. He continues until he’s finished, cleaning up the wounds and wrapping them before leaving. Anthony comes in next. He’s furious which only makes his actions harsher. He holds the back of next against the floor, spitting insults my way, as he forces his way in. Dried blood on my leg gets mixed with sweat and him, putting off a gag-worthy smell. When Anthony is done he throws me up against the wall, hand gripping my neck hard enough to bruise.   
“Never forget you belong me to me, you worthless bitch.”  
I drop to the floor as he turns away, boot stomps receding. I don’t have time to catch my breath before Sean comes in. I look up to see him adjusting his glasses as he peers down at me.   
“Oh, you poor dear.”  
His tone is soft, gentle even, and he helps me to my feet. He guides me to the mattress and sits me down, handing me a bottle of water.   
“Go on, drink. It will help.”  
I tentatively lift the bottle to my lips, realizing just how thirsty I am as I end up guzzling the bottle.   
“There, there, I know the others have been so rough with you, haven’t they? You poor thing. Here, lay down for a moment, catch your breath.”  
His kindness is dizzying, and I oblige with no objection. He watches me as I feel myself relax. My limbs feel heavy. He smiles with his crooked teeth and I giggle.   
I giggle?  
“That’s it. Feel everything relax. Let yourself drift off.”  
I giggle again, but now my mind is racing, as the giggle escapes without cognitive instruction. Everything is dead, immobilized and, upon seeing the panicked look on my eyes, Sean sets to work. He begins to tie my arms and legs with ropes, hooking me above the mattress when he’s done and laying below me. He takes his time, occasionally reaching out to run a finger along my skin, but mostly using his hand for long, slow strokes. He sputters to a finish, smiling at me again when he’s done, and patting my cheek softly. He leaves me strung up, watching as whatever was in the water wears off. The ropes are digging into my wounds from Shaw and I become increasingly aware of how tight the ropes are. They’ve constricted me to the point I couldn’t move, even if I tried. Everything goes to sleep, my whole body full of pins and needles.   
“Has the sleep set in?”  
I nod. He smiles again. He takes me down and unwraps me, leaving after restraining me to the bed frame again.   
“We’ll see you tomorrow my dear."


	3. New Digs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kali adjusts to the new men in her life.

Sean becomes my godsend. Where the other two find joy in my continued pain, going so far as to have joint sessions to see who can push me to cry most. Sean sweeps in after they’re done, bandaging me and rubbing salves on my healing wounds. He continues the binding and suspension but is careful avoid causing me extra pain. Sometimes, there’s no binding or suspension, just him and I talking. He enjoys the conversation as he reapplies my bandages, asking me about things I like and things I don’t.   
“Pink or blue?”  
Blue.   
“Ropes or silk?”  
Silk is soft. I like soft.   
“Do you like fruit?”  
Peaches…and strawberries. Oh, and banana.  
“What happened to your hair?”  
I was disobedient.   
“How often do you get to go upstairs?”  
Never.   
This troubles him. He and Anthony have a loud conversation outside, albeit muffled by the door, but when Sean returns he’s smiling broadly.  
“Darling, we’re going to change things around here.”  
It starts with time upstairs. It’s only an hour at a time at first, but the freedom is nice. I’m brought oversized t-shirts to wear until Sean intervenes. He brings me a black marker and a magazine, having me circle items I like. He even takes my measurements to find the best sizes. Anthony takes great offense to this “attack” on his methods of care.   
“You can’t baby her like this. She’ll become spoiled.”  
Sean waves him off, handing me another magazine, then another. The clothes arrive a week later. It’s mostly oversized items, sweaters, and hoodies, with leggings for the bottoms. A handful of dresses at Sean’s insistence, slip-like ones for Shaw, and even Anthony decides to get in on it. He gifts me leather harnesses for my thighs and waist. The men take turns choosing outfits for me to try on and for a few hours, things are like they were before, when Anthony didn’t take touch me. The hour at a time upstairs unfolds into afternoons on the couch, mostly on Shaw’s lap. Shaw pulls me onto his lap every chance he gets, hands resting on my hip and pushing my head to rest on his shoulder. There are people in and out, the most common of them being James. Anthony, increasingly annoyed by his presence, takes to retreating to the den when he arrives. Shaw enjoys James’ company, joking with him and sharing beers as they absent-mindedly watch soccer together. James brings a friend with him from time to time, Steve, who remains quiet most of the time.   
Things move swimmingly, sessions occurring less often and with less violence in them until Sean brings up my hair.   
“You butchered it! The least we can do is fix it for her.”  
Anthony refuses to budge on the matter, saying it reminds me what happens when I don’t adhere to their will. Despite this clear difference in thought, Sean invites a hairdresser in any way. Anthony is nowhere to be found as she dyes my hair to a soft brown and cuts it to hide the missing pieces. When she finishes, it’s styled like a bob of sorts with long layers which brush my collarbones. Parted on my left side, the layers frame my face softly and Sean is extremely pleased with the hairdresser’s work. Everything is fine. The woman leaves and Sean snaps a photo of me with his phone to “show off.” Two hours into a soccer game, a door bursts open.   
“Where is he?!”  
Anthony.  
He’s breathing heavily as he tromps into the room, face flushed, freezing when he sees me. I’m sandwiched between Shaw and James, but this doesn’t stop Anthony from storming over and grabbing me by the hair at the base of my skull. Sean slides into the room and Anthony brandishes me at him.   
“What the hell is this?! What have you done to her?!”  
I whine at the pain as he throws me about. James is on his feet in a flash.   
“Hey man, why don’t we put- “  
“Shut the fuck up, Buchanan,” Anthony snarls, jutting me out towards Sean, “What did I say about the haircut? Huh?! What did I tell you?”  
“Last I checked, I am not confined to your whims,” Sean says, coolly, Shaw nodding along with his words.   
“Yeah, man, chill out. She looks great, what difference does it make?”  
Anthony snaps at him too, going on about disciplining me properly. I can’t focus on his words as I claw at his hand, which only leads him to tighten his grip, causing another wounded sound to escape me.   
“You be quiet. You- “  
He points at Sean.  
“Learn whose house you’re in and you- “   
He turns to James.  
“Keep your nose out of our business. My belongings, my rules. You can have your own rules when you get one of your own, you hear me?!”  
Silence spreads across the room in a toxic fog as Anthony moves to the stairs, dragging me with him. He throws me against the wall, and I sink a little, curling in on myself defensively.   
“Don’t you think for a single second all this shit makes you anything more than what you actually are. You’re nothing, you’re worthless, and if you ever pull any spoiled brat bullshit I swear to God himself I’ll shoot your kneecaps out.”  
He ends the statement with a swift knee to my gut, which leads to a cry. There’s shuffling in the living area, followed by James appearing around the corner. The scene before him must be upsetting, but he maintains an even tone as he walks forward.   
“I think she gets it. Maybe you should take a walk, I’ll take her downstairs.”  
Sean and Shaw appear behind him, not giving Anthony much option but to cave. The moment they disappear, James has me back on my feet, supporting the majority of my weight.   
“I swear to God if he ever pulls this shit in front of me again, I’ll shoot out his kneecaps,” James mutters as we make our way down the steps to the playroom. I let out a soft chuckle, causing my newly injured belly to ache, but it’s worth it. James leans me up against the wall, putting an arm on either side of my waist. He touches my cheek with the back of his index finger, bushing the tip of my nose with it playfully.   
“For the record, I like short hair.”  
I hold onto the tiny tender moment I have with James as the week carries on. Anthony takes to coming down twice, sometimes three times, a day with little to no recovery time between. He locks out the others, keeping me to himself.   
“See this is more like it, just some one-on-one time, like before these dumbasses showed up and ruined it all.”   
I’m hanging from the ceiling hook, the chain too short for me to stand flat-footed, and I struggle to stay on my toes. He’s coming at me with a utility knife, cutting open the sweater and leggings I’d put on to sleep in.   
“All this frou-frou shit…oh, and your friend, Buchanan. He’s taken quite the shine to you.”  
There’s jealousy there and I find myself clinging to the sensation of James’ fingers against my cheek. The soft look on his face, genuine warmth in his eyes. It’s ripped away from me as Anthony clicks my collar around my neck, tightening it to strain my breathing.   
“Yeah, and you love all this attention, don’t you? You’ve forgotten your place. I should have Shaw skin your entire leg for all this bullshit.”  
I shake my head quickly, trying to rasp out an apology.   
“Shut up. He’s got no finesse with his work. Pierce is an idiot for bringing them in. Sean and his pampering, fucking fruitcake, while you-“  
He uses the knife to point at me.   
“You lap it all up. Well, fine, I’ll give you attention. All the attention you can handle and more.”  
He takes me off the chain and throws me onto a table in the corner. My cuffs click into a chain bolted to the wall and he forces my legs apart. I wiggle, prompting him to grip the back of my neck and press my face against the tabletop hard.   
“Stop it. See this is what I’m talking about. There was a time you would have listened to me, obeyed the things I said, and now look at you.”  
He drags the knife blade down my arm, leaving a shallow scratch which stings.   
“You’re lucky I don’t pour scotch on that.”  
He takes his time, holding my neck as he knocks the table against the wall. When he’s done he goes to the wall, taking down one of the particularly large toys. I whimper, kicking against the table legs as he comes up behind me again. There’s no preparation, nothing to help the process, and I cry out at the pain as he pushes it further and further. I cry again, blubbering slightly, and he rolls his eyes. He grabs a gag and straps it to my head, giving my hair a solid yank as he does. And he leaves.   
Just like that, he leaves. My legs hang, toes barely brushing the floor, and I feel my body falling into panic mode. He can’t have left. He watches me struggle and it gets him off. It’s the routine. I kick at the table legs again, but nothing budges. I wonder if I wiggle enough then the toy will work it’s way out. I try it and get halfway there when the door opens.   
“Hey! Did I tell you to move?!”  
He sees what I’ve done and fumes. He shoves it back in and I yell around the ball gag. He finds a roll of duct tape and presses a handful of strips across my ass, forcing my ankles together to wrap them in tape too. I hear the bed frame creak as he collapses down onto the mattress, groaning as he leans back.  
“See, this? This feels like home.”  
I make more noise, wondering if I bother him enough then he’ll abandon the waiting game to just get things over with. But this doesn’t work out, as I hear snoring after a few minutes.   
Asleep.  
No, no, no, no, no.   
I feel panic again, rocking my legs back and forth to knock the table around. Anthony doesn’t stir. I feel despair set in and I find no solution but to cry. When Anthony comes to, my entire body is covered in a dull ache. The cuts the duct tape down the middle and removes the toy in one swift movement. It’s painful, definitely, but it’s nothing compared to the pain when he buries himself in the now vacant opening. I scream, outright, and he pulls my head back by the hair.   
“Yeah, there it is.”  
He goes on like this, slowly to create a throbbing sensation, and eventually, my entire body begins to shake as a means of coping. This encourages Anthony, who begins to ram himself against me, finally finishing and wiping the remnants on the duct tape he’s left stuck to my ass. I haven’t stopped crying, but I’m dehydrated to the point my tears have stopped, and it’s just chest-racking sobs echoing throughout the room. He pulls back, cleaning himself up, and then sitting on the bed again.   
“Didn’t you miss this? Shaw and Sean, they ain’t got shit on this, and your little bestie? Forget it.”  
He pulls me off the table and removes the cuffs. He throws me over his shoulder and thunks me down on the mattress, straddling me and staring down.   
“This is your place. This is where you belong, you know that now, don’t you?”  
He uses the tip of his knife to draw a line down my cheek, not pressing hard enough to leave a mark, but still threatening me with the idea he could. Snot covers the ball gag and dried tears have made the skin on my cheeks tight. There’s pounding at the playroom door, but Anthony ignores it. He continues dragging the knife tip down my cheek, then to my neck, and down across my chest. There’s so little fat on my body I’ve got hardly any breast tissue. This doesn’t stop him from palming what’s there and coming in close to my face as he does.   
“All this? Mine. Doesn’t matter what Shaw or Sean, or your precious friend James says. It’s been mine from day one and it stays mine.”  
More pounding at the playroom door. Anthony’s eyes are full of mania, hair trussed up, and he puts the knife to the gag, the tip at the corner of my mouth as if he means to slash my cheek open.   
“If I can’t have you, then they can’t either. Do you hear me? You belong to me, now and always.”  
He gives me a shake.   
“Hear me?”  
I nod rapidly. There’s louder pounding on the door. His knife is pressing harder and I brace myself for the pain of a cut. A loud bang from the other end of the room causes him to withdraw the knife. The door’s flown open, Sean and Shaw falling in surrounded by a group of twenty other men. The older man with the thick glasses stands at the front of the group.   
“Anthony, my boy!”  
A shot rings out and Anthony slumps to the side above me, falling off the mattress. I scream and I find I can’t stop. It just keeps going, breaking down into hyperventilating as more and more of the men surround me. They’re going to take turns, each getting time with me to do as they please. I’m biting on the gag, shaking and wiggling to try and get away from them all.   
“Back up! You dumbasses, she can’t breathe!”  
The gag is out of my mouth. I can move my legs again. Something is thrown over me as the men back up, making space for the newcomer. A hand is on the top of my hair, trying to soothe me.   
“Hey, you need to start breathing. In and out, like a normal person, or you’re gonna make yourself sick.”  
I’m nodding, focusing, and the newcomer flashes a soft grin. It’s familiar and I focus further to identify him.   
“James, it seems you have this handled. Meet us upstairs when you’ve gotten her in better shape. She needs new accommodations.”  
“Don’t say it like that. She’ll panic again.”  
It’s a blanket he’s wrapped me in. It’s fuzzy, soft, and I take a handful of it in my fist. Everyone files out, leaving James and me alone with Anthony’s body. I stare at it, watching blood continue to pool from the shot. It’s clean, through the head, and his eyes are open staring at everything, but nothing.   
“Hey, hey, don’t look at that. You don’t need to see it.”  
James is lifting me, carrying me out of the room. I spare one more look at his body before we head up the steps. James sits on the couch with me, leaning me against the arm and lifting my legs across his lap. There’s a low rumble of murmuring from the den, the occasional raised voice.   
“We’ve worked with her, she’ll be fine with us!”  
“You couldn’t handle this, clearly!”  
James taps my shin and I look at him for the first time.   
“Don’t listen to all of that. It doesn’t matter.”  
He’s set to work on the tape around my ankles. I wince as he pulls at it. It’s been there long enough it’s had time to really adhere to my skin. He has a pair of scissors, carefully pulling and cutting away sections, as the murmurs dissipate. People begin to leave the den and I watch as all, but a handful, leave. The man with the glasses exits last, coming to sit on the ottoman in front of me.   
“It would appear you’re a very popular choice, but I can only send you on with one person. It seems you are a one-to-one ratio person.”  
I’m shaking again. Shaw and Sean are two of the choices. The third is a large bald man with a large nose in a pinstripe suit who tries to smile at me. He’s missing a handful of teeth. The fourth is hunched over, a weasel of a man, with thin wire-framed glasses and knotted hands. He has a cane with a bird skull as a handle. I wonder if he’d hit me with it. The fifth…the fifth is Steve. James notices and they exchange a meaningful look. James sees me looking and locks eyes with me. I feel my bottom lip quiver. I can’t leave with anyone else. I can’t readjust to new people. Especially not them. James looks at the tape on my ankles, and then reaches out, moving my blanket aside to see the restraint chafing on my wrists. His expression hardens, resolve taking over as he looks at Steve again.   
“She’s coming with me.”


	4. Under New Management

There’s a beat of silence before the boss lets out a barking laugh.   
“James, don’t be ridiculous,” He chortles, clapping him on the shoulder. James moves away from the hand, crossing his arms defensively.   
“I’m serious, Pierce. My work speaks for itself and I’ve paid my dues thousand times over. I want her.”  
I feel my hands begin to shake and I hide them under my blanket, staring up at James. He shoots a sideways glance at me, eyes cold, and I feel nausea pooling in my stomach. Steve comes to stand next to the arm of the couch, blocking me from Pierce’s view. He puts his hand against the back of my head, causing me to flinch, but it’s a soft touch and he begins to rub the nape of my neck with his thumb.   
“She’s the reward I want,” James says again, putting his own hand on top of my head and pulling me against his hip. I pivot to face Pierce, who is watching with intrigue.   
“Perhaps…perhaps we can come to an agreement,” he muses, taking his glasses off to polish them with a cloth.   
“You have a bond with her, there’s no denying that, but the way things are done is very absolute. Your work is extraordinary, but I’m not certain you can show the same ruthlessness in your private affairs.”  
Pierce pauses in his glasses polishing to look James in the eye. They hold each other’s gaze, the tension palpable enough to choke before Pierce finally sighs and puts his glasses back on.   
“Alright, James, if you believe you can handle this then we’ll let you have a go. However, I’ll be checking in to ensure things are going smoothly. She is your first, after all."  
Ruthlessness.  
The word is harsh enough on its own but in relation to how James is meant to treat me? My hands are still shaking. Pierce and his men file out slowly, James wishing them well. Steve stays behind, the pair sitting down in front of me on the ottoman.  
“Hey, cookie, how ya feelin’?”  
I feel emotions bubbling up, threatening to explode. James sees my lip quiver and comes to sit next to me. He wraps an arm around my shoulder, hugging me against his chest. It’s soft, tender even, and it’s too much for me. I break down into a mess, tears, and snot dribbling down my chin. Steve brings over some Kleenex so I can clean up, but it’s useless as more tears come down. By the time I’ve calmed down, over half an hour has passed.   
“We’re going to go downstairs and pack up your clothes, okay?”  
I feel my chest tighten when the are out of sight, paranoia Pierce will pop back in prompting me to go to the top of the steps. I’m still wobbling, leaning against the door frame for support. Dried blood covers my legs and arms, a mess of stickiness on my stomach and thighs. Steve sees me at the top, climbing the steps quickly.   
“Hey, what are you doing? You don’t need to be down here.”  
He starts to guide me back to the living area, but I shake my head. I feel numb as if I’m just floating through space.   
“Don’t wanna be ‘lone,” I mumble, turning back to the steps. Steve nods, giving me a supporting arm around my waist.   
“Okay, okay, but you sit on the steps. You don’t need to go back in there.”  
“Bottom steps?”  
He smiles softly, nodding again.   
“Yeah, it can be the bottom steps if you want.”  
If I want. They come out of the playroom a few minutes later with a suitcase, James starting a little seeing me.   
“Why are you down here? I said to stay upstairs.”  
His tone is more concerned than reprimanding, but I find myself cowering away when he comes closer. He rests a hand on my cheek, rubbing it a little with his thumb. Still afraid he’s upset, I whisper out an apology. He shakes his head, pulling me against him in a tight hug.   
“It’s okay, I’m not mad or nothin’. I just didn’t want you going back in there is all.”  
“It’s my fault, she said she didn’t want to be by herself up there, so I had her sit on the stairs,” Steve explains, coming up behind James. James hands him the suitcase, scooping me up in his arms to carry me upstairs.   
“I can walk.”  
“I know what you can do.”  
His statement is a touch curt. I know what he means, what he’s seen of what I “can do,” and I fall quiet, resting my head against his shoulder. We walk out of the house to a dark car with tinted windows.   
“We’re going somewhere safe. Somewhere Pierce doesn’t know, okay?”  
I nod, James, putting me in the backseat.   
“Do you want me to sit in the back with you?”  
James is already sliding in next to me when he asks. He gives me some space until I lay down, putting my head in his lap. He’s surprised, but pets my hair nonetheless. I drift off, occasionally opening my eyes at a large bump or something as we go along. Steve turns on the radio on, but there’s no music, only voices. I’m asleep when we stop, James, shaking me a little to rouse me.   
“I have two options for you, and whatever you pick, that’s exactly what we’ll do.”  
I nod, still a little groggy.   
“We can take you to the safehouse, you can sleep and eat, take a bath, whatever. But, you’ve got some pretty rough injuries here, so if you want to go to a doctor or something to get looked at then tell me and we’ll take you.”  
I blink at him, sitting up fully.   
“Wh-Why do I need a d-doctor?”   
James and Steve share a look.   
“You could need stitches for your cuts or fractures we don’t know to exist. You…you’ve seen a lot and you could have older injuries which need to be looked at. I…I mean, we don’t even know your name or anything about what’s happened to you.”  
James is pleading, glancing at Steve as he talks.   
“You want me to choose the doctor.”  
I chew on my lip. I’ve gone this long without one, so the odds of me healing without one could be high.   
“I want you to choose what you’re most comfortable with, cookie, not what we want.”  
James gives me a small smile, doing his best to mask the hopefulness I’ll choose the doctor. I chew on my lip more, tasting blood. He pulls it from my mouth, and I flinch at his hand near my face.   
“I don’t…what if they think you…did the things Ant-Ant-Ant- “  
I can’t finish the word.   
“Are you in pain right now?”  
The question comes from Steve. It occurs to me I’ve gotten so used to ignoring the pain I actually am. There’s a sharp pain around my ribs, dull aches all over, a headache covering the entire back of my skull, and some stinging from the cuts on my legs. I nod.   
“Do you want to go to the doctor to make sure the pain isn’t something serious?”  
I blink a few times before nodding again. If the option is there, I assume it can’t hurt.   
“Alright, I’ll text Sharon and see if she’s working. She can do a quiet exam without bringing in a lot of outsiders.”  
Steve pulls out his phone as James smiles at me.   
“I’ll be with you the whole way, alright? Won’t leave your side, okay?”  
I nod, feeling him squeeze my hand tightly. It hurts.   
“Okay, Sharon is there. Let’s go.”  
***  
The hospital is huge. There’s an entire building for emergency and trauma, but we don’t go there. Sharon meets us at a back entrance, taking me into an exam room just down the hallway from the door. She talks quietly for a moment with Steve, before turning to me.   
“Are we doing a rape kit?”  
I blink at her then look at James.   
“It means she takes some forensic stuff in case someone wants to make Pierce and them go to jail one day. It’s okay if you want her to do it.”  
My response is to let the blanket fall off me and nod. She takes a moment to look me up and down.   
“Well, we should start with the tape.”  
She brings in a bottle of baby oil and takes to slowly removing the tape, doing her best to keep it from being painful. When she’s finished, she puts the tape in a plastic bag and sets it in a bin, putting the blanket in as well. She takes dirt and blood out from under my nails, uses a q-tip to swab some of the stickiness off my stomach and thighs, and swabs the inside of my mouth.   
“Okay, I need to do some swabs inside you, so we’re going to put your feet up in these little stirrups.”  
She takes a vaginal and anal swab, which hurt a little, but not nearly as much as when she cleans the cuts. She takes a giant brown q-tip to them, the liquid causing the stinging makes me squirm.   
“I know, it stings a lot, but it’s going to help them be clean. If they’re clean then they’ll heal properly.”  
James holds my hand while she cleans them, bandaging some of the deeper ones. Sharon turns to Steve.  
“The good news is no stitches. I’ll tell you more when she gets back from x-ray.”  
I have to stand for the x-ray, my head spinning a little when she helps me up. She puts a heavy vest of sorts on me, before going into the booth to take the x-rays. She takes me back to the exam room, giving me a pair of sweats with the hospital logo on them. I put them on, finding the inside to be very soft, and sitting on the table. I kick my feet a little as we wait, my ankles making a dull thudding sound against the metal. When Sharon comes back, her face is a little pale.  
“Well, she doesn’t have any breaks. There’s some…some cracked ribs. There’s a lot of healed breaks and fractures and…I…well, just look.”  
She puts the scans up on the light board. My bones are lined with what look like scars. James stands slowly, mouth open a little as he gets closer.   
“Are-Are all of these lines…are they all healed breaks?”  
Sharon nods.  
“Breaks, fractures, microfractures, you name it, it’s up there. I need to get her to the MRI to check for potential brain injuries.”   
Brain injuries?  
“Yeah, alright, take her up. I…we’ll wait here I guess.”  
Brain injuries?  
Sharon loads me into a wheelchair and begins to take me out.   
“What happens if I have one?”  
Everyone stops for a moment. James kneels next to me and smiles, touching my cheek with his hand again. Steve is behind him with the same pale expression Sharon had when she came in.  
“Then we fix it, cookie.”  
We wait for the MRI for an hour before we can use it. Sharon gives a thank you to the person in the booth, helping me onto the table. It slides me into the machine, which whirs and makes my head hurt. I squint at the headache and the noise, turning my head a little to see if it makes the noise any less painful. Someone comes over a speaker and asks me not to move. It feels like hours before Sharon comes back in and helps me back into the chair. She takes me back to the exam room, her face much more positive than her x-ray face.   
“No brain injuries, a minor contusion, but nothing which will cause problems.”  
I look up at the word contusion. She smiles down at me.   
“Your brain has a little bruise which should heal in a couple of days, tops.”  
James helps me out of the chair.   
“Okay, so she’s alright?”  
Sharon nods.   
“Yeah, surprisingly she’s good. The cuts should be done healing in a week or so, no major internal damage, and the bruises on her arms and stomach will be gone within two weeks. She’ll need to take it easy, come back in so I can check her ribs, but it’s only two and they’re towards the top so they won’t be puncturing anything. She’ll need to watch out for anything which feels like being sick. Rib injuries can sometimes lead to pneumonia.”  
James lets out a massive sigh of relief. He helps me out of the wheelchair and hugs me tightly. I let out a wheeze, the hug causing some pain where I’m guessing the cracked ribs are located. He pulls back.  
“Right, ribs, sorry. Okay, let’s get you out of here.”  
Steve and Sharon talk for a few minutes before Steve joins us in the car. We drive further into town, passing skyscrapers until we cross over some train tracks to a more run-down part of the city. Still crowded with buildings, leaning against one and other for support, the place feels a bit like a ghost town. The shop fronts are boarded up, some have broken windows, and graffiti litters the sidewalk. We pull up in front of a mechanic shop, James jumping out to open and shut the garage door. It’s the bottom floor of a larger building of apartments. The building is brick, a bit dilapidated, and the wooden stairs up the apartments creak under our weight. I’m a little afraid I’ll get a splinter. We climb to the third floor of the building, coming to an apartment door with 422 on the front. The last two hangs slightly crooked and James flashes me an apologetic smile.  
“I know it’s not as fancy as the house you were at, but it’s all yours to do with what you like. You have your own room and bathroom, there’s a kitchen, and a guest room if you want me or Steve to stay with you. As I said, it’s not much, but I- “  
“But it’s mine. Which means it doesn’t matter if it’s fancy. It just matters it’s mine.”


	5. Home Sweet Home

The apartment doesn’t end up being mine for long. James moves me less than a week later to an extravagant Victorian on the outskirts of a suburb. There’s an old woman living there who makes a thin mushroom broth to eat every day.   
“Good for the bones,” she says in her rattling whisper. She makes bread, French style, cuts it thick and serves it with butter alongside the mushroom soup. I try to help her, but she waves me off to give attention to one of the thousand cats prowling the house. One, a dark grey shorthair, takes a shining to me.   
“Pierre, a good boy. His eyes are like stars.”  
The woman pats his head as she talks. I see what she means. The cat is blind, eyes a translucent blue, which shine eerily in the light from the house’s windows. When we leave the Victorian, the woman gives me her bread recipe.   
We continue staying in temporary places for another month, James apologizing profusely for the moving and uncertainty. Steve is there to drive us every time but never stays for long once we arrive. James will leave and return with food, only to leave again for “business.” I try not to think about what “business” could mean. We almost exclusively eat takeout or delivery foods. I find Chinese makes my stomach hurt if I eat more than half of my portion, but I can put away a large cheese pizza like nobody’s business. We end up leaving behind my more frivolous clothing, resorting to sweaters and leggings 24/7. The more takeout we eat, the tighter my leggings become. James tells me it means I’m getting healthier when I express disappointment. I do my best to become more comfortable with the feeling of “healthy.” He brings me a tablet to play games and watch tv on, so I won’t be bored waiting for days to pass while he arranges our next safe house. It’s late November, almost a full two months after taking me out of Anthony’s care, by the time he sits me down to explain we have a permanent home waiting for us in the city.   
“It’s in the city, laundry in unit, a little balcony that overlooks the city line. We’ll do décor ‘n all that mess once you’ve seen it, so you can get a visual on what you like to do. Whatever you need, whatever you want, cookie, you tell me and it’s yours.”  
He kisses my forehead. My stomach flushes with warmth as he does, and I find myself pulling away to make it disappear. He notices my wariness and avoids touching me for the rest of the afternoon. He shows me different styles of decoration on the tablet, trying to gauge what I’m interested in. When we leave in the morning we have to drive for an hour to reach downtown. The building we stop at is taller than any apartment building I’ve ever seen. The front is paned with glass, reflecting the soft winter sunshine down on us. James puts his coat on my shoulders to keep the wind out. It’s leather, soft from wear, and I breathe in his cologne as he guides me inside. There’s a fountain in the center of the first floor, a business center to the left, and a gym entrance on the back wall. We ride an elevator to the fifth floor, James handing me a silver key as we walk up to the door. It’s a corner unit.   
422.  
It’s one room, living area designated by high ceilings and the bedroom separated with a black wood/paper sliding wall. A kitchen space with a combination island/seating area lays to my right, across the room form a set of French doors which I assume leads to the balcony. The counters in the kitchen are white with grey marble streaks, the cabinets matching the soft grey of the marble, with a dark vinyl hardwood on the floor. I run my hand over the smooth surface, enjoying the cool against my fingers. I continue walking through, past the makeshift wall to the bedroom. The ceiling is lower here, two closets with the same hardwood beneath them to my right. One closet door is folded in, revealing a white washer and dryer set sitting on top of each other. Through the closet space is a bathroom with the same materials as the kitchen, a tub shower combo standing opposite of the cabinets and mirror. When I turn, James is leaning in the frame leading to the rest of the apartment. His eyes are hopeful, face attempting to mask it.  
“What-uh-what do you think?”  
It’s wonderful. Amazing.   
It’s mine.  
Actually mine.   
***  
We spend the next week hauling furniture into the apartment. James takes me to store after store, throwing whatever I touch into the cart, swiping a black card at every register with no questions asked. We find the softest mattress I’ve ever felt, paired with an ornate black bed frame and a black side table to match. We pick up candles in soft scents like vanilla and lavender, plus holders which match the black of my bed frame. Steve brings me a care basket full of soap, bubble bath, and whatever other skincare product he could find. The bathroom becomes mermaid and octopus themed, starting with a beautiful mermaid figure painted on a wood plank I find at a Hobby Lobby. The shower curtain, black with white tentacles crawling up, comes next. This prompts James to take on the project, coming in with more sea-themed items to create a spa-like space for me. The living room becomes another relaxing space. I fall in love with a giant bean bag, James buying two for company, and he mounts a large flat screen to my wall. A fold-down shelf and desk combo are screwed to the wall, positioned next to a bookshelf made of mismatched crates, both decorated with my candles. Steve sees me eyeing some plants at a store and walks me through the garden center, explaining which plants would be good for an indoor space. We decide on a couple of rubber plants for inside and palms for the balcony. I scoop up an armful of succulents, Steve grabbing some little pots for them behind me as we stagger out of the garden center. James laughs at the sight of us, so heavily-laden with these plants. We get to assembling and arranging, the boys asking my permission before putting anything anywhere. I set to putting dishes and groceries away but am quickly shooed away to what James has affectionally nicknamed “the bag.”   
“Sit! We’ll organize and everything. You just relax, please,” he begs, not giving me much time to object as he scoops me up and plops me onto the bag. I fiddle with my tablet, playing but not really playing a gem-matching game, while the boys continue to unpack for me. I turn on a documentary about oceans, drifting off to the narrator’s voice. I wake to the smell of meat. Something is sizzling in the kitchen-my kitchen- and I peek behind me. The place is completely set, James sitting on a barstool while Steve moves around the kitchen. I stumble over, rubbing my eyes and opening the fridge. I take out a carton of juice, swigging straight from it. James is watching, eyes smiling as he turns back to watch Steve. He has steaks in a skillet pan, throwing them into the oven, and milk boiling in a saucepan.   
“Can I help?”  
My voice is soft, still tired, and Steve smiles at me.   
“You don’t have to.”  
I nod.  
“I know, but I should know how to make things.”  
He gestures for me to join him, explaining I should just follow the box instructions for most everything. He opens the oven to show me the steaks, having me poke them to tell whether or not they’re cooked.   
“Put your middle finger and thumb together. The bit of your palm next to your thumb? If they feel the same, then they’re medium rare.”  
“Medium rare,” I echo. He nods.  
“How did they feel?”  
I pause for a moment.  
“Too soft.”  
“Alright then, so we’ll focus on the pasta,” he says, showing me the box. It’s an alfredo style, with a sauce packet and little noodles meant to be thrown in all together. I take over the pasta, mixing occasionally as the noodles begin to cook. We finish the meal, serve it on my new plates, and relax in the bags. James turns another nature documentary on, turning off the overhead lights in favor of soft lamps lights. Steve bows out after a half-hour, leaving me and James alone in one of the bags together. I don’t realize I’m cuddled up to him until he moves away. My hand tightens on his sleeve, an unconscious movement on my part, which catches him by surprise.   
“Hey, cookie, you alright?”  
He settles back in next to me, an arm curving around my shoulder, as I rest my head against his chest. The thumping of his heartbeat helps me remember to breathe consistently. The warm sensation in my stomach reappears, causing my entire body to feel as though it’s on fire.   
“Do you want me to stay here with you tonight?”  
I nod wordlessly. He presses his lips against the top of my head, not a true kiss but enough to comfort me nonetheless. I lose focus on the documentary as the series plays through, my concentration on James as his head falls back against the softcover of the bag chair. His breathing slows, heartbeat following, as he falls asleep. I’m confused by the continued skin-on-fire sensation, having never felt anything similar before. It’s not comparable to pain, despite it being a little uncomfortable, but it’s not entirely unpleasant. I slip out from under James’ arm and take a cold shower. It doesn’t help. I climb into my own bed, burying myself under the plush comforter, and fall asleep thinking of what it would be like for James to come to sleep in it with me.  
***  
James leaves early in the morning, before I’m even awake, but is back for dinner. We eat leftover pasta and steak, watching more documentaries. This becomes the routine. I tend to my plants, play on my tablet, and watch nature documentaries until James returns every night for dinner. After a few weeks, it occurs to me I could leave during the day if I want to, as James never told me I couldn’t. When I finish breakfast, I dress warmly and take a stroll through the park down the street from my building. The trees have lost most of their leaves, but people are still bustling around on the sidewalks. Sunshine peeks through grey clouds, warming my face against the chilled wind. I find a bench and people watch for a while. Several dog owners pass by, a few of the dogs making a stop at my spot to be pet. I consider what it might be like to have one of my own to greet me when I come home, sleep on my bed with me, and comfort me when I’m lonely. I look at some photos on my tablet, take some too, to find one which might fit well with me. It’s only after all the looking I realize I need to ask James. When I come back to the apartment, he’s already there, home early. He’s pacing quickly when I come in, hands raking through his hair as he stares at his phone.   
“You’re here early.”  
He freezes, dropping his phone to the floor.   
“You’re okay!”  
He rushes me, trapping me against the door in a bone-crushing embrace. He’s kissing my forehead, cupping my face and checking me over.   
“Y-yes, I just went to the park. I’m sorry, was that okay?”  
He doesn’t respond, just continues to hug me. His phone vibrates on the floor and he dashes to answer.   
“Yeah. Yeah, no, she’s here. No, I know. Okay.”  
He sets it on the counter before coming back to me.   
“You didn’t leave a note or anything, I was afraid something happened, of course, it’s okay. You gotta tell me, I don’t want you wandering all over just in case Pierce comes looking. You can go wherever you want; just please tell me you’re going so I don’t come home and panic.”  
Home.   
James continues to talk, helping me with my coat and scarf, hugging me again.   
Home.   
He buries his face in my hair, soft kisses across the top of my head, and cups my face in his hands again.   
Home.


	6. A New Look

I continue admiring dogs in the park. I gradually admire the people with the dogs as well. Their hair, color, and style. Some have skin red from the cold or chapped from the wind. I do my best to keep my skin from being dry, afraid I too will become a chapped mess. My hair experiences the dryness as well, leading to a trip to a salon with James. The woman explains I should be using a specific product, a cream-like substance, to keep my hair’s curls from becoming lax. It works a miracle. There’s a bakery near my building, always warm with free hot drinks, with a cashier who catches my attention. She has curls like mine, a gold ring coming out of the bottom of her nose, and a floral tattoo snaking up her arm. It disappears into her sleeve and peeks out of her shirt’s neckline. I pluck up enough nerve to talk with her, asking about the tattoo and piercing. She gives me a card for a shop in Brooklyn.   
“Ask for Tasha.”  
The card has a detailed octopus stretching across with a drop-shaped splatter of red paint behind it. I look up the shop on my tablet when I get back to the apartment, browsing the gallery of the artists' work. Tasha has several entries, all highly detailed renditions of nature with minimal splashes of color. Another artist, Ronin, takes up the rest of the gallery. His work his geometric with overlapping shapes, some of the overlapping blocks filled with plain black or primary colors. The shop is down the street from an animal adoption center. I switch between photos of dogs and photos of piercings or tattoos. James watches over my shoulder as I browse. I’m sitting at the kitchen island, him standing behind me, casually resting his chin against my head.  
“You know those hurt,” he says quietly. I nod silently, continuing to flip from page to page.   
“They hurt a lot,” he reiterates. There’s a concern now.   
“Can’t be any worse than what I’ve had before.”  
My voice matches his volume, but it’s a strong statement. The words cause him to fall silent, arms wrapping around my chest to give me a quick squeeze. I have the final word on the matter. I continue browsing for the next week, before coming to James with a photo. It’s a minimalist, bracelet-like line around a wrist. It comes to a soft point, angled up towards the fingers. I show him a couple of others, similar plain black lines some paired together and some on their own.   
“How many are you wanting?”  
“Three, I think…if-if you...if that’s-you know, with your permission, of course.”  
I’m nervous, shaking slightly, as I ask for his blessing. I’ve never had the freedom to ask for so much before and the power is a bit overwhelming. I can’t begin to imagine the pain I’d have to endure to earn even the smallest influence over my appearance under Anthony’s care. James sees the shaking, the fear in my face, and he rubs my arms.   
“I told you, whatever you want, it’s yours.”  
***  
Steve takes me to the appointment, James set to meet us there. We take the train, Steve keeping me close to prevent leering creeps from getting too confident. James isn’t there when we arrive, but Ronin is ready to begin nonetheless. The needle feels like nothing. The wristband on my left, a plain wristband on the right with a set of close together bands on my upper arm. The bands go over my flaying scars. Steve watches, analyzing the scars on my arms, and thanking Ronin when he finishes. Ronin claps him on the back, telling him it’s nice to see him in the neighborhood again.   
“You know him?”  
“And Tasha. We all went to high school together. Spit ways when I went to-when I went into Pierce’s business. They’re loyal as hell to each other, lived in the same foster house. Loyalty to others doesn’t fit in well in Pierce’s world.”   
I bite the inside of my lip.   
Foster house.  
“You have to be loyal to something in the system or you’ll get lost in it.”  
Steve stops, looking at me for a minute.   
“You…You were in foster care?”  
I nod. I can’t find a definition for the emotion on his face. There is surprise there, but also a realization of some sort, and I quickly look at the ground, uncomfortable with his prolonged stare.   
“Wait, wait, when? How-How long?”  
I continue to look at the ground. He feels ten feet tall as I cower in his shadow.   
“I-I don’t-I was thirteen, I think, when-when- “  
I stumble over what I’m trying to say. Steve backtracks in an attempt to calm me.   
“Okay, alright, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, okay?”  
We ride back to the city in silence. James doesn’t come home for dinner. Steve stays with me until the morning, leaving around noon.   
“He was meeting with Pierce and some associates for a business deal. He’ll be back soon.”  
Steve doesn’t sound convinced by his own words, but he smiles at me to make them seem more solid. I’m on my own for the next few days. I make food on my own for the first time, learning exactly what scalding milk means after trying to make another minute pasta package. My tattoos’ redness fades to reveal the sleek black lines. I admire them in the bathroom mirror, tracing over them with my fingers. I realize I’m admiring my whole self, not just the tattoos, for the first time since…for the first time maybe. I’ve continued to gain weight, my chest now heavy enough to fill out a bralette and my stomach soft and round instead of caving in on itself. My ribs have disappeared beneath my skin once again, deep brown freckles sprinkled across my skin in constellations which spell out health. I pull my shirt back on and collapse down onto my bed.   
My shirt. My bed. My home.   
It’s a kind thought to fall asleep with. James and Steve don’t come back in the morning, or the next morning, or the next. I find myself pacing, going a little crazy with cabin fever, as snow falls outside. Eventually, I take to braving the elements to visit the bakery. I bury myself in a lavender milk tea, sitting in the corner and watching everyone who walks into the shop. My cashier brings me a muffin, blueberry and still warm from the oven. Two men bumble into the shop, catching my eye. One is tall, lanky, with a hunched overlook. The other is shorter, bald on top, with thick glasses. My blood runs colder than the wind coming in with them. They buy nothing, shaking a paper at the cashier before turning to look at the shop. I turn away, hiding my face in my drink. They leave without noticing me. The cashier comes over to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. I jump, knocking the rest of my tea to floor. I apologize over and over, stuttering out the words.   
“Hey, it’s okay, accidents happen. Those guys were looking for you.”  
I nod, fingers trembling as I reach for the cup on the floor, and she stops me.   
“I told them I’d never seen you and to get lost. Let me walk you home.”  
***  
I don’t sleep. It’s three in the morning when a thud at the front door jolts me out of bed. James gave me a small knife, disguised as a lipstick. I grab it from the bathroom counter, edging my way to the room divider and sliding it open just enough for me to squeeze out. The door clatters open as I reach the kitchen, someone stumbling in, and collapsing onto one of the bags. I crouch behind the island, peering around the corner. He’s breathing heavily, one arm was thrown up to cradle his head. A lanyard with key drops to the floor next to the bag. It’s too dark for me to see his face. I can’t be certain it’s anyone I know. James always said he would die before giving anyone the key. My stomach constricts at the thought. I’m torn between dashing out the door or confronting them. I’m smaller, weaker, but I have the element of surprise. If I run I have enough time to make it down the phone in the lobby and call for help. I find myself creeping forward, knife poised to strike before I have much time consider any other option. My knife comes up to his neck, finding the artery and pressing slightly.   
“Move and I’ll cut you open.”  
He freezes for a moment before relaxing again.   
“That’s brave, cookie, I didn’t peg you as one to give out threats.”  
The knife falls from my hand as I launch myself onto him.   
Safe. Safe. Safe.  
He holds me back, but it’s a loose hold. I pull back, realizing I’m straddling his lap. I clamber away, blushing deeply.   
“You’re okay,” I whisper, and he nods, pulling me back in.   
“Yeah, I’m okay. Pierce needed me for some business, and it took longer than I thought it would. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for your tattoos, I couldn’t get away from the organization, even for a little bit.”  
I’m straddling his lap again, my skin on fire again, and he readjusts to sit up a little. He brings up his phone, the lights coming on at the tap of his finger. All breath leaves my chest. His left eye has a heavy bruise under it, his lower lip is split, and there’s a cut on his cheek. His shirt is dirty, yellow around the collar from sweat, and there’s some deep red across his chest. My hand reaches to his cut, my fingers tracing it. He hisses a little and I flinch, pulling back.   
“Shh, it’s okay, I’m okay. It’ll heal in a couple of days.”  
I pick at the red stains and they flake a little.   
“Don’t touch those, they’re too-you don’t need to touch those,” he murmurs, taking my hand in his and holding it gently. He runs his thumb along the top of my wristband, smiling softly.   
“I like it, you’ll have to show me the others here in a bit.”  
He groans, holding his diaphragm as he sits up a little more. I pull up the bottom to see purple bruises have bloomed across his abdomen. My hand is at my mouth, his head falling back a little to look up at me as I feel tears begin to form.   
“Shh, no, babydoll. No tears.”  
Babydoll.   
“I’m okay, it’s just business. It’s rough sometimes.”  
Babydoll.   
“I’ll wash up and it’ll be better, you’ll see, okay? Stay here for me.”  
He lifts me up off his lap and runs a shower. The image of his bruises is burned into my skull. The way his eye was closed slightly, the pressure of his irritated skin keeping it from opening all the way. His eyes, their usual blue faded to grey, hardening at my fear of his injuries. The water in the bathroom stops. Subconsciously, I’m moving towards it. Towards him. He’s got his jeans on, shirt crumpled on the floor. There’s a silver chain with dog tags tinkling together as he moves. I’m leaning against the frame of the closet space, then the bathroom door. He examines his face in the mirror. The cut looks better, so does his lip, but his eye is the same. I reach for him, hand on his cheek, staring at his hurt eye.   
“Hey, cookie,” he mumbles. I can’t tear myself away from his eye. I realize this is the way James had seen me, bloodied and bruised. This feeling of worry, of wanting to give care, this is what he had felt when Anthony and Shaw and Sean were dragging me off to do with what they wanted.   
“What-what happened? Who did this?”  
My voice raises as I speak, my hands shaking out of anger, and James is a little stunned. He looks down at me, vibrating with fury, ready to take my lipstick knife to the person who chose to hurt him.   
“It was just a bad business deal. Pierce needed protection and my target was more difficult than expected. It’s okay, these things happen when I work.”  
I’m still shaking, my hands balling into fists.   
“Did you get him?”  
It’s more of a demand than a question. A gremlin in the corner of my brain jumps at the idea of James giving this target whatever it was he deserved. James hugs me to him, petting my hair, and forcing my arms around his waist.   
“Hey, it’s okay, you don’t need to be this upset,” he says, lips moving against my head.   
“Did you get him?”  
This time my voice is steady. I pull back from his hug, my eyes locked with his, stance defensive. He’s surprised, even more so when he reaches for me and I pull away.   
“Did. You. Get. Him.”  
James sighs, looking at the ceiling.   
“Yes, yes we “got him.” Now, will you please come here? I’d like to hold you for a minute if that’s alright with you.”   
He sounds exasperated. I’m annoyed at his lack of concern for himself. I turn on my heel and leave, throwing myself onto my bed and facing away from him.   
“Cookie don’t be like this, please.”  
He’s begging. I tighten myself up into a ball. He’s reaching now, hand on my shoulder, turning me back towards him.   
“No!”  
The sound echoes around us.   
“You left and you stayed gone and you come back like…like this! And you won’t tell me who or what did this to you and you’re annoyed I worried and I-I-I- “  
I break down into blubbering. It’s more emotion than I’ve experienced since I left the playroom.   
“I didn’t-I was-I didn’t know- “  
He sits on the bed with me, pulling me into his lap. I cry against his chest, feeling his heartbeat to remind me he’s still there, that he’s not a dream. He shushes me, petting my hair again, and murmuring promises of never again. By the time I’ve calmed down, I’ve exhausted myself to the point of drowsiness. James lets me drift off against his chest, laying me down once he’s sure I’m fully asleep. I grab at him when he pulls away, catching the dog tags in my fist.   
“Stay.”


	7. Growth is a Bitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kali tries to cope with her unpleasant memories.

Most days when I wake up, James is laying next to me, watching. I always feel exposed, despite knowing he’s seen me at my most vulnerable. It’s different now because now I have the choice to let him see me, but I feel shy, self-conscious even, nonetheless. Despite this, after a few days, I feel less embarrassed, leaving my ridden-up pajama shirt in its place instead of pulling it down. James looks away from my exposed stomach, leaving the bed, a hand at his mouth. He wanted to reach for me, I can see it. I wanted him to. My skin is on fire again. I lock myself into the bathroom for twenty minutes and douse myself in icy water. I pull on fleece-lined sweats and a loose top which slips down my shoulder move I move around. I stretch as I walk into the living room, my stomach exposed again. James stares again before shaking his head and taking a swig from an orange juice carton. He’s also in sweats, no shirt, with his boxers peeking out from his waistband. His dog tags clink as he moves around. The memory of seeing him stretch and expose his waist on the couch at the playroom house makes a surprise appearance, leaving my cheeks feeling hot.   
“Are you okay? You look a little flushed, you’re not sick are you?”  
I shake my head quickly, my hair bouncing with the movement and flicking my cheeks. I retreat out onto the balcony. The air is cold, cold enough I shouldn’t be out here without a coat. It prickles my skin but doesn’t stop me from being warm. My stomach has a pool of lava bubbling in it.   
“Hey, get back in here!”  
James pulls me inside, wrapping me in a blanket.   
“What are you doing? You can’t go out there like that!”  
He shakes his head at me, laughing softly.   
“You’re crazy, cookie.”  
He takes my chin between his thumb and index finger.   
He jerks me to him and there’s a flash of pain on my arm. I’m stumbling backward, holding my bleeding wrist. I’m begging, please, no more. He laughs.   
“Hey! Hey, what happened?”  
I’m across the room, pressing my back against the kitchen island. My chest is constricted, a weight pressing down on me, clawing at my neck for breath. James comes closer and I press further back, an instinct more than a true reaction.   
“Are-are you with me?”  
I clutch my stomach, bile burning the back of my throat. He steps closer.   
I’m cowering against concrete. He’s pulling me by my hair, throwing me over something, ripping fabric to make his route easier. I’m squirming, screaming, begging.   
I realize I’m speaking before I process what I’m saying. James is standing over me and I’m on the floor, arm raised defensively. It’s unconscious, pleases and noes falling from my lips in a torrent. The words are choking off any chance of me explaining away the moment. James sits down, cross-legged, on the floor in front of me.   
“Take your time. Let me know when you’re ready to talk.”  
He’s patient, gentle, handing me a cup of water. Only after taking a small sip do I realize how dry my mouth is and begin to chug it.   
“Hey, hey, slow down for a minute. You don’t want to choke.”  
In the process of trying to listen, the water splashes up my nose, causing me to cough and sputter out an apology. James takes the cup, handing me a Kleenex for the snot in my nose and mouth, continuing to sit while I hack up my lungs. He scoots closer.   
“I’d like to rub your back, I think it will help you. Is it okay for me to rub your back?”  
I nod. He moves to sits next to me, moving his hand up and down my spine. It’s just a flat hand at first, then his thumb works at my neck, down to my lower back. All the while, he asks if it’s okay if I want him to stop if I need him to move away from me. When my breathing becomes semi-normal, he stops, turning slightly to face me.   
“What happened?”  
I shake my head, afraid it will happen again if I choose to speak it. If I don’t say it out loud, then maybe I can pretend it never happened.   
“Please, I want to know. I want to know so, if it happens again, I can help you.”  
“I’m okay.”   
My voice is barely above a whisper. He shakes his head and stands suddenly. I flinch at the movement.   
“Don’t say you’re okay. You’re clearly not okay. I don’t know how you could ever be okay after everything you-after everything they- “   
He pauses and runs a hand through his hair.  
“Babydoll, I need to know. I want to take care of you, but I can’t do it if you don’t tell me what’s happening in your head.”  
Babydoll, again.   
I lay back onto the vinyl, staring at the kitchen lights. James appears above me, hands resting softly on my knees.   
“Do you understand what I mean?”  
I nod, sitting up and coming to rest with my face a few inches from his. His breath is against my nose and lips. He smells like coffee, like vanilla creamer, and there’s a touch of his cologne. I’m trembling a little, but it’s not from my impromptu stroll down memory lane. I move back first, resting against the kitchen wall, and use the island to pull myself up. James comes in close again.   
“Please, explain to me what happened there.”  
I raise my head to look him in the eye. It’s still healing, the deep purples faded, but still visibly injured.   
“You held my chin and all I could see for a minute was the playroom, was him and what he would do, and I reacted. He would hold my chin to speak to me, to make me look at him, so he knew I was listening. If I wasn’t listening, then I wasn’t obeying.”  
I push out of his grip, my cheeks hot again. I feel embarrassment flooding my body, tears falling as a side effect, and I find myself sitting in the corner of my room. James gives me space. He pokes his head in to tell me he has to leave, and he’ll be back late. True to his word, it’s past midnight when he comes through the door. Iron hits my nose as he walks in, straight to the bathroom, pulling off his shirt. The blood isn’t dried, and the shirt hits the floor with a wet sound.   
“Is it yours?”  
James jumps a little, not hearing me come to the doorframe.   
“No.”  
“Good.”  
I give a slight nod before leaving to sit on a barstool. He kisses my cheek as he passes. It’s a fleeting motion, more a reflex, a habit, than a meaningful touch. It feels cold. I play on my tablet while he watches soccer, silence hanging over us as though it were a part of the décor. I want there to be laughter, soft words, soft touches, but none happens without effort from the pair of us. I don’t have the nerve to start the conversation and he seems content to let me stew in my embarrassment. I chew on my nails to cope until they’re little more than stubs, the polish chipped to all hell. Anxiety builds in my chest, threatening to explode. Frustration with my bubbling emotions threatens to boil over. I set the tablet carefully on the counter, afraid I’ll slam it if I don’t pay attention, and slip off the barstool. My face feels hot, blood rushing to my cheeks to create a deep flush. I don’t move, rooted next to the island, with my fists balled, fingertips digging into my palms. Despite my nails being gnawed off, there are still points which poke into my skin, the same gremlin which made me snap at James rearing its ugly head again at the feeling. I’m shaking, primed to explode when James speaks.   
“Cookie? You alright over there?”  
I’m whirling on him, fists clenching tighter, my mouth open ready to scream at him. The words I need don’t appear, and I falter. I struggle for a minute to compose myself, but hours of composing wouldn’t prep me for the things I need to say. Eventually, a simple statement falls out.   
“I’m upset!”  
It’s pointed, brief, but the message is out there. James comes up next to me in response, arms reaching out to hold my waist. Revulsion shoots through me causing me to push his hands away.   
“Okay, no touching, got it. Can you explain to me why you’re upset?”  
I feel like a child, pouting with no explanation, and I cross my arms across my stomach.   
“Do you know what made you upset? Was it a specific moment, or a word? Did you have another memory pop up when you didn’t want it to?”  
They’re good questions to ask, but I don’t have true answers for any of them. James moves to look at my face, trying to lock eyes with me.   
“Babydoll…”  
I perk up, my arms relaxing a bit, meeting his gaze. His eyes are intense, but still full of warmth.   
“Talk to me. Take your time but talk.”  
I chew on my thoughts, trying to present them in some comprehensible form.   
“I don’t...I’m upset, because of what happened. I don’t-don’t understand why I’m-why I have so much anger. It’s sitting here,” I point to the middle of my chest, “suffocating me, but I don’t-I can’t make it leave no matter…I want to feel normal, be normal, but I can’t. He-He took…”  
I pause again, relaxing my hands to stop the pain in my palms.   
“He took normal away from me. It died in that-that cell he called a playroom, it died with him.”  
“This is about your memory flash earlier.”  
I nod, sinking down to sit on the floor, my back against the side of the kitchen island. James sits with me, taking my hand into his lap, rubbing his thumb along the back.   
“It’s okay to be angry. You have every right to anger.”  
“I know!”  
It snaps out of me, no warning, but James remains unfazed.   
“Never hurts to have a reminder. I can’t begin to pretend to imagine what it’s like to live through, and live with, the things you’ve gone through. It’s good to talk about it if it helps you process those things. You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to. You can talk to Steve or neither of us or both of us. We can get you set up with a person who specializes in the things you’ve seen, in a group setting if you’re more comfortable with it. I always tell you whatever you need, all you need is to ask and it’s yours. I mean it.”  
“Talking doesn’t help me to change it.”  
“Change it? Babydoll, you can’t actually change it. It’s in the past. You can’t make it go away permanently, but if it helps to talk about it, if talking lessens the burden, then you should do it. I don’t even mean talking about what he did in that room, it can be other things. How you got there, if it was always like that, when it started, whatever it is you need to get out, just do it. Let loose.”  
Let loose.   
“My foster house sold me out.”  
James blinks, looking confused by my words.   
“Your f-foster house?”  
I nod.   
“I’d been in and out, a runaway from everywhere they put me, and he…Anthony just appeared one day, said I was leaving with him and handed the mom an envelope. She was so excited. I’d never seen her smile before, but she did when she opened the envelope.”  
James blinks at me.  
“Wait, wait, wait he-he bought you?”  
I shrug.   
“I don’t think it was his money. I mean, he provided at first and everything was expensive, but I don’t think it was his money.”  
He stands suddenly, pacing the room.   
“You’re sure there was money in the envelope?”  
I nod. The mom’s hair was blonde, so thin you could see through it under the house’s lights.  
“She held one of the bills up to the light. He told her it was all real and she thanked him. She had one of the babies on her hip, Emily, I think.”  
He’s nodding rapidly, typing furiously on his phone. It buzzes several times.  
“You’re sure it was Anthony who took you with him?”  
I nod again.   
“I never met anyone else until the first time I saw you and all those others.”  
He’s nodding, pulling on his boots and coat.   
“I hafta go, Steve is-I hafta go. I’ll be-I’ll be back soon. Don’t go anywhere ‘til I get back.”  
He leaves a fleeting kiss on my forehead. The shutting door echoes in the empty room. I sit on the floor a little longer, until my tailbone is numb from the pressure. I groan as I get to my feet, rubbing my lower back as I head to the bathroom. I peel my clothes off, only at the moment realizing I’m sweaty as all hell. I run a bath, the water teetering on boiling, and soak until the water turns cold. The tips of my toes are slightly numb as I wrap myself in a towel, throwing on the softest clothes I can find and take up refuge in a bag. James had brought home a small space heater and I put it to good use. My feet are directly in front of the heater, hands resting in the pocket of my hoodie, and I snuggle down into the soft fur lining of the bag. I call to the home thing James set up to put on a new docuseries. This one is about mountains, but I barely make it through half an episode before dozing off. When I open my eyes again, the third episode is ending, similar suggestions popping up. I choose a short documentary about butterfly migration but find myself paying little attention.   
Don’t go anywhere ‘til I get back.  
Down to the bakery can’t hurt.  
Don’t go anywhere ‘til I get back.  
A muffin sounds wonderful right now.  
Don’t go anywhere ‘til I get back.  
They’ll be closing soon. They close for the holidays tomorrow? Today?  
Don’t go anywhere ‘til I get back.  
I’m changing into leggings, putting on boots to move through the bits of snow scattered around the sidewalks. I smush a loose beanie down onto my head, the pom on the end bouncing as I walk. A scarf around my neck, a leather jacket which smells like James, and I am out of the door. It’s getting late, the overcast sky fading from dull grey to black as street lamps begin to click on. I’m walking quickly, in the bakery in less than a few minutes when it usually takes a solid ten to get there. The cashier’s mouth opens a little when she sees me, her eyes are wide and afraid. There are two men sitting at the corner table. One of them smiles at me with crooked teeth.


	8. Hired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kali faces new challenges as she's thrown back into the organization

They flank me, marching me up the sidewalk towards a town car with tinted windows.

“Boss said we don’t get to play with you this time.”

Shaw is bounding beside me, voice shaking with excitement, and he pinches my side when I don’t respond. Disgust makes me wrinkle my nose. Despite their presence, I’m not afraid. I can’t describe the emotion, all I know is it’s full of adrenaline and anger.

“Don’t make that hoity-toity face at me, you think you’re better than me? I know Buchanan doesn’t put you in your place, but I’m not afraid to. Don’t test me, little girl.”

He moves slightly ahead of me and I stick my foot in his path. He faceplants into a foothill of snow. Sean sniggers next to me and I shoot him a look. He’s smaller than me. My knife is in my pocket. It’s out and in his arm before I can comprehend it. I’m running, beanie falling off my head, scarf tangling slightly as I watch my building get closer.

_Don’t go anywhere ‘til I get back._

Sean is yelling in pain, but also in a panic. Shaw is yelling too, but simply out of anger.

_Don’t go anywhere ‘til I get back._

I slip on a patch of ice and slam against a light pole, the pain making my eyes water. My nose burns, there’s blood in my mouth, but I don’t stop moving. My lungs and legs are burning as I reach the crosswalk. There’s a cab blocking the walk. The street light is green, and the cab surges forward, but not before I’ve crossed into its path. A loud honk, headlights in my face, and the screech of brakes. I’m staring at the skyline from the pavement. I can’t feel my leg, or maybe I can, and my brain is blocking out the pain because it’s too much. I’m using the hood to drag myself up, a terrified taxi driver staring at me from behind the wheel. Arms grab me from behind, one pulling my hair and the other knocking my knees out from under me.

“You’ll pay for that one, little girl. Just wait.”

The cab fades as a sharp pain in the back of my head appears. The headlights hurt my eyes, so I close them. I find I can’t open them once they’re shut, but I’m still moving around. Something soft under my cheek, loud slams to my right and left, and an engine turning over.

“It’ll be one of the clubs for her.”

“He could put her on the street.”

“No, a club. She’s too pretty to be thrown to wolves, yet.”

***

I’m laying on a cot when I come to, but it’s in a real bedroom so I don’t panic yet. There’s another cot adjacent to me, a human-shaped lump under a blanket on top. I groan, pain in my head and leg knocking me for a loop when I swing myself to sit on the side of the cot. There are a thin blanket and flat pillow at the end of the cot. The room is drafty, the window covered in plastic wrap, and the door has no knob. There’s an open door at the end of the other person’s cot, revealing a bathroom. It’s got a dirty standing shower, grey-once white- sink and toilet, and a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. I wrinkle my nose at the smell. I glance in the scratched mirror, a little spooked by the blood on my face. It’s dried, coating my mouth and chin, with drips down my neck. I run water, ice-cold, and wipe it all off. I have a cut splitting my eyebrow, barely missing my eye, and continuing down my cheek a little. I give myself a once over, checking for any other blood. My leggings are ripped around the knee to reveal a deep purple bruise, which I poke a little to find it stretches down my calf to my ankle. I’m still wearing James’ jacket and my boots. The boots are covered in mud and there’s a stain on the sleeve of the jacket. I take a washcloth to both, cleaning up nicely. I shove my hands into the over large pockets of James’ jacket, something jingling against my right one. I pull out something metal, silver, and I drop them in surprise. James’ dog tags stare at me from the floor. I pick them up gingerly, running my thumb over the raised writing.

**James B Barnes**

**32557038**

**10/3/1992**

**Brooklyn, NY**

_Barnes?_

I put them around my neck, letting them hide under my shirt and rest against my chest. The metal is cold against my skin, sending a slight chill down my spine. There’s clattering outside the bedroom door and I turn to see the door open.

The woman who owns Pierre is in the doorway. She has two bowls in her hand. She sets them on a small table to the right of the door, freezing when she sees me.

“_Kotik_,” she whispers, taking the cross around her neck in a gnarled hand, whispering in her language as she turns to leave. I cross to stand beside her, only now noticing just how small she is, and I lean down to speak with her.

“Where am I?”

She says nothing to me, simply speaks in her language a little louder. I assume it’s a prayer. Frustration floods my system. I pull the dog tags out of my shirt and shake them in her face. Her eyes widen and her prayer gets louder.

“You know where these came from. You know he’ll come to find me and what he’ll do to anyone who gets in his way.”

She ignores me, shuts her eyes, and continues to pray. I lose my patience, pushing past her to the hallway. There’s laughter coming from down the hall. I head the opposite direction to find a set of narrow stairs. They creak little as I go down, emerging into a large kitchen. It’s empty, but there’s a large archway nearby where laughter floats out. There’s a door, grey sky shining through a window in it, to my left. I creep along the wall, watching the archway as I edge towards the door. The door comes into sharper focus and there are bars on this window as well, a padlock over the knob. It’s a combo lock, simple, but effective if you don’t know anything about them. I check the archway again before giving the lock a hard kick. My need to get out negates my attention to any noise I make. The lock dents but holds fast. I scan the space for something heavy. There’s a cast iron pan hanging on the wall above the oven. The oven is in direct line of sight from the room through the archway. There’s nothing but a large fridge and a dishwasher on the other side. I slip back to the dishwasher, peeking inside. It’s empty. I curse softly.

“Darling! It’s unladylike to speak such things.”

I spin on my heel to see Pierce standing in the archway. He moves forward, causing me to move away, which in turn leads to one of those barking laughs.

“It’s good to see you as well, my dear. It seems there’s been a miscommunication about your handling between James and I. Don’t worry yourself, though, as I’ve already found a new place for you. I trust you’ll follow the rules set for you this time, no running away or disobeying.”

He smiles broadly as a man comes upon his left side. He’s Pierce’s age, portly, walking with a cane. He has wire-framed glasses, perfect circles, and a scraggly salt n’ pepper beard. He adjusts his glasses as he looks me up and down, wringing his hands a little. There are three large gold rings on his right hand, each with a shining stone which could be a diamond.

“This is Mr. Zola. He’ll be taking care of you from now on and in return, you’ll be a server in his establishment.”

I grit my teeth.

“I can take care of myself.”

They chortle with each other.

“My dear, you’ve never once taken care of anything on your own. We’ve provided for you since you were a child.”

A child?

“I was never a child to you. The minute you scooped me up and gave me to-to-to that _monster_ you called a caretaker. Not even a caretaker, a _handler_, because to you I’m not a human being, but I’m something to be handled. A product for you to place on a line and send off to your employees as a bonus for doing your dirty work. I will never be handled by you or someone in this _asinine_ organization of yours, ever again.”

I didn’t realize I was yelling until the last word leaves my mouth. My chest is heaving, anger making my skin hot, and the men turn to look at each other.

“I see what you meant. You need not worry, my old friend. We will take this defiance out and replace it with obedience. Gentlemen, if you please.”

A pair of goons are coming towards me, rounding each side of the island to corner me. I’m kicking, biting, screaming, anything to keep them from putting their hands on me. One of them pinches my shoulder and I sink to the ground, the pain literally too much to stand. One flings me over his shoulder and when I come out of the cloud of pain, I kick at his chest. He puts his other arm over my legs, subduing me a bit. The goon takes me back upstairs and throws me back on the cot, the other person in the room sitting up suddenly when we enter. To be fair, I’m making quite a bit of noise. The goon thunks me down onto the cot but doesn’t leave, instead of slamming the door behind him. The other person in the room is a girl, hair deep purple and skin pale enough to be stark white. She balls her knees to her chest as the goon turns to her.

“Hello again, Raven, long time no see.”

His voice is gruff, and he corners her against the wall, burying his face in her neck. She begins to cry softly. I don’t think, jumping onto his back and clawing at his face. He tries to shake me off, arms swinging wildly, but I hold fast to his neck. It’s fat enough I can barely get an arm around it, but he begins to slow as I squeeze tighter. His arms stop swinging, falling to his sides, and he sinks to his knees. He slumps against the wall and the girl lets out a squeak, looking up at me wide-eyed. She’s wearing a thin long-sleeved shirt, collarbones jutting out the collar, and no pants. Her panties are a soft blue, full butt, and she pulls her shirt down a little to cover them. I wrap the blanket around her and help her stand, moving delicately around the lump of a thug on the floor. I guide her out to the hallway, moving towards the kitchen steps again. Raven pulls on my arm, pointing across the way. There’s another door across the way, a lock on the outside and no doorknob, just like the room we came out of. I scan the hall again, noticing two other doors in the hallway. I cross, unlocking the door and letting it swing open. Three cots and three girls greet me. They’re as emaciated as Raven, varying hair colors-all artificial- with the same scared faces. I leave the door ajar, moving to the next door. Two cots, boys this time, each with the same red hair and brown eyes. They’re holding each other, wrapped in a single blanket, wearing only grey boxer briefs. The last one freezes my blood. It’s two girls, brunette and young. I squat slightly to get on their level. They’re young enough to have not grown breasts yet, both wearing only panties. They rub their eyes, looking up at me, questioning what they see in front of them. Everyone is staring at me, the red-haired twins only barely poking their noses out of their room, but Raven walks towards me.

“You’ll never make it. They have us locked down unless we’re at the club.”

_Fuck that noise. _

I go back to the goon, still unconscious and rummage through his belt and boots. There’s a small handgun hidden in a belt notch. It’s a revolver, three shots, and my hands shake a little as I turn it over between them. It seems simple enough. Cock it and fire. I’m moving, gun in my hand, the kitchen steps a highway to freedom. I poke my head out before stepping into the room. No noise, no people, just the sound of my boots on the hardwoods. I’m shaking, anger and fear mixing to riddle my skin with goosebumps.

“Do you plan to shoot us?”

I don’t know where he came from, but he’s in front of me now, fingers tapping his cane handle.

“I take it you’ve done something to Vincent, which was to be expected, I suppose.”

He moves forward, so the gun barrel is against his chest.

“You are not a killer, my dear. A fighter? Absolutely. A killer, however? Never.”

I falter for a split second, my hand going slightly limp, and Zola takes it from me at that moment. The others from upstairs are marched into the kitchen by a series of thugs. I raise my eyes as Raven falls to the floor, the goon behind her holding a bloody knife in his hand. A pool of blood stretches out around her neck and chest. The other girls go next and I move forward to stop them, but Zola takes the cane to my stomach, knocking the wind out of me. I look up again as the red-haired twins go down, falling on top of one another.

“This is what happens when disobedience runs rampant in our system. There are consequences for poor behavior, and lest we forget, there are reminders of these consequences when necessary.”

He raises my chin with the bottom of the cane as the young girls hit the floor.

“Their blood is on your hands. This is a reminder of how expendable you are to me. You have been given to me because Alexander believes you to be a lost cause. Perhaps you’d like to strike a deal, ensure no other blood is spilled today.”

My face twitches, contorts, into a snarl. I rise to face him, holding my stomach.

“You’re disgusting. You’re a disgusting man who oversees other disgusting men and I’m going to watch you suffer and die.”

He uses his ringed hand to slap me, the motion causing blood to fill my mouth. His thugs step over the bodies before them, taking me by either arm and escorting me outside. They sit me in the backseat of another town car, smashing me between them. Everyone else exits as well, one of them pouring something on the front steps. Zola lights a cigarette and takes a long drag before flicking it onto the steps. They burst into flames just as the car starts. Zola gets in and we drive, the city skyline fading behind me. I stare a hole into the middle console of the car. On my left, one of the goons put a hand on my thigh. I grab a finger and wrench it backward, causing him to curse loudly. Zola laughs softly but says nothing. The thug nurses his injured hand and glares down at me. We drive for hours before arriving at a small airfield. There’s a plane waiting. I kick at the thug who does touch me as we get out of the car.

“There’s nothing for miles around. Only wilderness, my dear, and I do believe we’ll be kinder than the animals. You should save your energy.”

Zola’s voice is tired, as though he’s bored of me, and I spit at him. They load me onto the plane, plunking me into a seat. I’ve never been on a plane before. The takeoff makes my stomach hurt and Zola offers me a ginger ale. I smack it out of his hand to spill it onto the carpet. He simply sighs and turns to a large tablet. One of the thugs wraps the other’s finger, the pair talking quietly with the occasional glance my way. I pick at the tear in my leggings, staving off the drowsiness tugging on the sleeve of my conscious.

“If you need sleep, you have my word nothing will happen during your rest.”

Zola pauses, looking up at me.

“Your jacket. It seems a bit large for you.”

I pull it tighter around me.

“And the tags, I suppose they also belong to the jacket owner.”

I scowl at him and clench the tags in my fist. He takes off his glasses and sets them aside, folding his hand together with his index fingertips touching.

“It’s my understanding you were Anthony Runclave’s plaything for many years, which tells me sexual satisfaction is not a skill in your wheelhouse. I will make a deal with you, my dear, given you listen to and obey the rules set in place for you. The club I run is exclusive, with many a private service behind the curtains, but those services I reserve for high-end patrons. If you follow the rules I give, stay in line so to speak, I will not employ you to perform those services. You’ll have a routine on a stage, nothing more, and whatever money you make on the stage is yours to keep. Consider my offer, it’s much nicer than what other girls like you get.”

“Girls like me? I don’t think you know many girls like me.”

He gives a soft snort in response.

“You have until we land to give me an answer.”

I stare out the small window. Lights are winking at me beneath us in an otherwise pitch-black blanket which stretches as far as I can see. I must fall asleep at some point because I’m shaken awake by turbulence from landing. Dawn paints the sky as we exit the plane and walk to another car.

“So, my dear, your decision on my offer?”

I stare out at the horizon. Somewhere over it, James is searching for me, running over everything in his path. I run my thumb over his tag.

“I’ll take the deal.”


	9. What You're Made Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kali learns what Zola's hospitality means and is picked up by a new master.   
As always, mention of sexual violence and abuse.

I’m taken to a warehouse when we land. It’s lined with chain-link cages, girls, stacked on top of one another, cowering as Zola passes by. The girls range in age, some young enough to be in grade school and some closer to my age. We come to an empty cage towards the back of the warehouse, Zola’s goons coming up on either side of me as Zola himself opens the cage door.

“Welcome to your new home.”

James’ jacket is torn from my shoulders, my knees knocked out from under me. There’s a ripping sound as my shirt is torn up the back, falling to the floor in shreds. The goons flatten me, one of their knees forced between my shoulder blades. James’ tags clink against the concrete as I struggle, my legs suddenly bare as more ripping sounds echo in the warehouse. The other girls watch silently, eyes wide, but none of them look surprised. My boots come off my feet and I’m slid into the empty cage, the door slamming behind me. I scramble up, hitting the metal with my fists.

“We had a deal!”

Zola lets out a chortle.

“My dear, you don’t know how to negotiate. We never agreed to house accommodations.”

He leaves, the warehouse door sliding shut behind him to leave us in low light. There’s rustling and as my eyes adjust, I see the other girls pressing their faces against the metal to peer at me. I move to the back corner, shaking a little. The warehouse is cold, James’ tags quickly catching to press the cold into the center of my chest. We all watch each other, no one saying a word or breathing loud enough to make any real sound. We stay like this until morning, my eyes drooping here and there, but slight clinks of the other girls against the metal wrench me back into reality. Sun streams in through high windows, beams stretching out to light up the piles of girls. They lay haphazardly on one another, soft snores echoing in the vast space. There’s a whining, turning to a roar, outside and I stand as the warehouse door rolls open. A Jeep rolls in, men clambering out like clowns. There’s a suited man, thronged by others, with a shaved head. He’s the largest of the all, massive in both height and weight. He carries a cane which he does not need, running it against the fence to make a rattling noise. My cage has no sun, the corner I’d retreated to almost totally hidden by shadows. The throngs of girls scramble away from the cage doors as the large man passes. He’s speaking, something with harsh constants and aggressive back of throat sounds. A couple of the men with him step forward as he points at various cages, opening the doors to some of the cages and pulling girls out by their hair. The yelp in pain, some struggling against the men. Others are limp, as though someone will attach strings and puppet them about. The group stops two cages short from mine, another empty one, and the girls are thrown in. The large man turning to the others, gesturing with an arm to the girls.

“Choose your prize, gentlemen!”

It’s carnage. There are screams as the hoard of men descends onto the girls. They drag them out by their hair, some breaking into fights over the same girl.

“Now, now, there’s plenty to go around!” The large man bellows, a deep laugh rising from his chest. One of the men had stayed back, waiting for the rush to make an analytical decision. By the time the hoard finishes, there are no girls left. They’re all held against the men, some over shoulders, others scooped into a bridal style, but most are on their knees next to what I can only assume is their own personal Anthony. The last man walks the length of the cages, stopping in front of my cage. He takes something out of his pocket and tosses it through the chain link. My hand shoots out to snatch it off the floor. It’s a piece of chocolate, wrapped in a pink tinfoil wrapper. Another chocolate lands on the floor, closer to the door this time. I throw the first chocolate back at the fence and it rolls to rest at the man’s feet. He says something to the large man, who sneers at my shadowed corner. He lowers his voice, eyes never leaving me, and mutters something to the man with the chocolates. Another chocolate is thrown in before they both go back to the hoard. I slide them into the cage next to mine, the girls tackling each other to get to it. I grimace, a bit of bile burning the back of my throat, as one of them bites the other hard enough to draw blood. They scream at each other, no words, just noise, before retreating to opposite ends of the cage. The man with the chocolates is given a blonde girl as recompense for my rejection. The men leave, the girls going with them, and the warehouse becomes silent once again.

***

It continues like this. Men arriving in large groups of fifteen to twenty, accompanied by different entertainers, and given their choice of girls, sometimes multiple to one man. No one is interested in a nearly empty cage, they want the wild girls who have been broken by this system, and I’m not one of them. It’s to the point I don’t even roll over when the warehouse doors open. I tune out the screams of girls who don’t want to leave the warehouse, of men’s grunts as they wade through the sea of bodies, and the rattling of metal against the concrete. The nights in the warehouse get colder, but I still clutch James’ tags against me, no matter how icy they feel. My fingertips and toes are numb more often than not. There’s food every three days. It’s lunch meat and bread, tossed over the tops of the fence. The girls are surprisingly civil about this distribution, patiently handing out meat and bread until everyone has some. I figure they’re trying to ration it out. I get my own package and loaf, causing the girls to glare at me while I eat. Zola had said he’d provide for me and I suppose this counted in his eyes. I eat the meat first, knowing it will spoil within a few hours if left out. I’ve been gifted a bucket in a corner as a means of a bathroom. The others hate me for this too. Dehydrated as we are, they are forced to go in the open, sleep in the mess even. I learn to tolerate the smell. One of the girls goes so far as to throw some of her excrement at me. She misses, but it’s too close for comfort. I find myself staying against the far wall of my cage, out of reach of both the visiting men and the other girls. I manage to get one of the handle screws off my bucket, using it scratch tic marks into the floor to keep track of the days. Ten turns to twenty, then thirty.

_A month. _

I memorize James’ dog tags, whispering it to myself as I fall asleep. My body aches when I’m awake, the concrete not nearly as forgiving as the bed James ad bought me. There are nights I don’t sleep, instead of staring up at the metal rafters. There’s fourteen in the warehouse, twelve fluorescent lights hanging between them, but they’re never used. The dark is meant to keep us all compliant. It won’t work on me.

I don’t turn at the noise, it’s the same as the other noises, but I do turn at the call.

“My dear!”

Zola saunters to my cage, inviting himself into the cage, and poking at me with his cane. I raise my head, eyes locking with his to bore holes into his head.

“Now, now, don’t you appreciate the kindness I’ve shown you? Your own space, your own food, and you don’t even stand when I come to visit?”

I sigh and get to my feet.

“Let me see your teeth,” he says, adjusting his glasses to peer up at me. I bare my teeth at him, and he chortles.

“So fierce,” he mocks with faux fear, using his cane to knock one of my knees out. I hit the concrete hard, my knee cracking loudly against the floor. I groan, clutching it, but stay kneeled in front of Zola.

“Stand her up. We need to shoot for the site,” Zola barks at the goons with him. One of them reaches for James’ tags, meaning to take them off, and I snap at him, barely missing his hand with my teeth.

“Leave them, it matters not.”

One pushes me against a wall, taking a moment to grope my ass while the other one sets up and camera with tripod. The flash blinds me and I squint in time to shield my eyes from the second one.

“We’ll find you a match, don’t you worry,” Zola remarks as I’m cast back into the cage. He leaves me a muffin, lemon, and blueberry on the floor. I put it in the cage next door as a peace offering. The girls attempt to tear one another apart to get a piece. I huddle into the corner and stare at the ceiling. I must fall asleep at some point because I open my eyes to the warehouse door creaking open. It’s only three men this time. There’s a leader, casual in contrast to the suits flanking him. His hair is cropped short, accompanied by a stubble-y beard on his chin. He’s smoking a cigarette, the smell causing me to wrinkle my nose. Dark wash jeans shoved into heavy boots and a leather-type jacket over a plain black shirt gives him a devil-may-care look. He doesn’t bother with any of the other cages, coming directly to mine and peering in. I stay put, forcing myself into a tight ball in my corner, wanting to disappear into the wall. He flicks the cigarette aside, smashing it into the floor with the toe of his boot.

“C’mere, you.”

He has a thick Southern drawl. I don’t move. He sighs and looks at the suits, who open the door to the cage and hoist me up. I kick at them and one makes the mistake of covering my mouth with his hand. I manage to catch his finger in my teeth, biting until I taste blood. He curses, dropping me and giving me the chance to hit the other in the side. I retreat back to the corner, the suits groaning and glaring at me. They start at me again, but a sharp whistle stops them. The cigarette smoker decides to try his luck. He squats a couple of feet from me, pulling out a box of Marlboros and lighting one. He offers one to me, frowning a little when I don’t take them.

“I don’ do things like these knuckleheads. You’ll come with me when yer ready.”

He plops down, legs outstretched towards me, smoking cigarette after cigarette until the pack is empty. The smell of stale smoke and new smoke mixes, making me want to gag. He tosses the butts to the ground and I watch the glow fade from each of them. When he’s finished his pack, he stands back up and whistles again.

“S’alright, darlin’, I’m patient.”

They leave the cage door open and wait outside. I still don’t move. Sleeping in Zola’s girl factory is better than anything this man would do to me. I count the seconds, the minutes, of waiting for this man to leave. When I hit fifteen minutes, he tries again, entering the cage and squatting near me.

“Tha’s a nice set of tags you’ve got there.”

My hand flies to James’ dog tags.

“Do believe I’d fancy stealing away a sweet thing like you from another man.”

He reaches for me. I let him get close enough to snap my teeth at his hand, but he doesn’t hesitate. “Lil’ spitfire like you is just what I’m lookin’ for.” His hand grips the hair at the back of my neck, pulling my head back to make me look at him.

“Lil’ spitfire like you is just what I’m lookin’ for.”

“Don’t touch me,” I hiss at him. He laughs heartily, a deep, resonating sound. His other hand reaches around to hold my wrists together as he lifts me up to stand.

“You think ol’ soldier boy is gonna come get you, huh?”

He shakes me a little to get an answer.

“He will,” I spit back, clenching my teeth. Another laugh.

“You think he’ll want you when I’m done?”

He smirks and drops me. My elbows hit the concrete hard, which makes his smirk grow into a grin. His suits take a run at me again, but the pain of the concrete hit distracts me from fighting. There is a Jeep and a large pick-up truck parked in front of the warehouse. The bed of the truck has a hardcover over it, which Cigarettes folds back to reveal a set of chains bolted to the floor of the bed. The suits toss me in, Cigarettes handling the chains to hold me to the bed, while the suits get into the Jeep. I struggle, but the chains are heavy and hold tight. Cigarettes close the bed cover over me, leaving me in near darkness. The truck rumbles to life and I feel every bump in the road as Cigarettes drives. It’s cold, even under the cover, and I begin to lose feeling in my face. We drive for hours, it feels like, and when the truck stops it’s a hard movement which jerks the chain into my neck, gagging me. I listen to the truck door open and shut. Heavy footsteps crunching on gravel. Only one set of footsteps. The cover is opened, light blinding me for a moment. It’s not bright sunlight, but the overcast clouds have their own version which hurts my eyes. The chains are removed and only after they’re gone do I realize just how heavy they were. There’s an imprint of the chain across my neck and chest. Cigarettes hoists me up by the hair, taking me out of the bed and folding down the tailgate. He bends me over it, using a rope to bind my hands together, pressing my face against the metal of the truck. It’s dirty and I get a bit of dust in my mouth. He pulls my head back, fashioning a collar out the rope and connecting it to the wrist binding. If I pull on the wrist bindings the collar presses onto my throat, choking me slightly. The gravel hurts my feet and I try to step carefully, but Cigarettes pushes me forward, causing me to stumble and hit the ground. More dirt in my mouth and blood wells up on my knees from hitting the rocks. Cigarettes pulls me up by the connecting rope and I gag loudly at the force on my throat. He lets out a low chuckle as he pushes me forward again. I manage to keep my feet under me, taking the moment to look around. It’s a dense forest, smells like pine, and the trees stretch up as if they’ll never end. There’s a wood cabin ahead, one story with a small porch and woodpile out front. There’s a rocking chair on the porch, not smooth enough to be store-bought, and I trip getting up the porch steps as I stare at it.

“Keep movin’,” Cigarettes snaps, pulling on the connector rope again. He holds it for a second, leaving me coughing and gasping when he lets go. There’s a screen door, the screen itself is torn slightly at the top, and Cigarettes pushes me through. There’s a simple bed, a wood stove, and a small bathroom off to one side. I sink to the floor, settling cross-legged in the middle of the room. Cigarettes moves towards me. I expect another choking, but he takes me by surprise. He takes hold of James’ tags and I pull back instinctively. I don’t hear them break, but when they clatter to the floor I let out an audible gasp. Horror courses through me as Cigarettes takes the tags off the floor and sticks them in his pocket. Not thinking, I pull on the restraints and launch myself at him. I try to ignore the chokehold of the ropes and yell at him, trying to break the binding. I don’t make sense, more crying than talking, as I land on top of him, teeth gnashing. I catch his hand, biting hard. He doesn’t react, simply pushes me off and I roll across the floor. Now I’ve started, the crying doesn’t stop. They’re great chest heaving sobs which make my entire body shake. Cigarettes says nothing, doesn’t move, while I have my fit in the floor. I’m ashamed, internally scolding myself for losing composure in front of him.

“So, you really believe in this solder boy. Tha’s good, hope is good. Makes you more of a challenge to break, but we’ll get there.”

He lifts me by the connector rope, pulling me to the bathroom and pushing me into the bathtub. I expect it to be grimy, but it’s in pristine condition. He starts the water, warm, but not hot, and using a pocketknife to rid me of the bra and underwear I’d been wearing. It’s disgusting, stinking, and stained from sweat. He makes a face and tosses them in a small trashcan beside the sink. He lets the tub fill around me, leaving for a few minutes while the water begins to submerge me.

_Maybe he’s going to drown me. _

He returns with a bar of soap and a large loofah-like sponge. I flinch when he runs a hand into my hair, gripping tightly.

“Don’t read into this. I like starting with a blank slate.”

The water around me turns a muddy grey the longer the bath goes on. When he’s done, he lifts me by my hair out of the tub and stands me in front of the mirror. It’s the first time I’ve seen myself in months. My skin is faded, devoid of color, and my curls stick out at odd angles across my head. Dark circles stain the skin under my eyes and my freckles have completely disappeared. A buzzing jerks me back to the moment at hand. Cigarettes wraps an arm around my shoulders and just to hold me still as he takes a razor to my hair. I push against him, tears threatening to boil over, and he pulls the gag rope to make me stop. He adjusts the clippers here and there until there’s less than an inch left all over my scalp. He takes clippers to my nails, cutting them so short they bleed in some places. He uses the gag rope to pull me back into the main room.

“I’m undoing your wrists. Try anything and I’ll take a hammer to your fingers.”

Anthony had done the same once. I’m certain I could endure it again. I feel ridiculous, almost over having my head shaved and then feeling next to nothing about having my hands broken in multiple places. He leaves the gag rope and collar, keeping hold of it while he sorts through a bag on the cot. He takes out a metal ring, roughly neck size, and I’m torn into a memory of the first time Anthony had used the collar on me. It was early and I wasn’t used to the playroom. He’d come at me and I’d scratched him, drew blood, on his face. He held me up by my wrists, left me hanging for a couple of hours before locking the collar around my neck and putting some food just out of my reach. He watched me struggle for a while before kicking the plate my way.

“You been collared before, I know, but it’s effective. Not my preferred method.”

He cuts the rope away from my neck and quickly clinks the collar together. He secures it with a simple padlock and connects the gag rope to a ring along the outside. He pulls me towards the front door, but I dig in my heels. He sighs and stops, giving me an annoyed look.

“Yer not winnin’ this.”

I cross my arms. He gives the rope a quick and hard pull, launching me forward. I hit the ground hard and catch myself with my hands. Cigarettes takes me by the collar, the metal digging into my neck, and tosses me out onto the front porch. I try to suppress the coughing fit from the choking, but don’t do it well. He pulls the rope again, but when I try to stand he puts his foot into my back.

“You’ll crawl. Teach you some respec’.”

I try to stand again but he holds me against the ground, boot digging into my tailbone. I don’t give him the satisfaction of a groan or whine, despite the bruising pain.

“I said, you’ll crawl.”

I feel splinters in my skin as he pulls me along the porch. It wraps around to the back yard, a stone path leading from the porch to a fenced-in shed. It looks like a dog pen, high chain-link fence surrounding a patio and shed. The fence door padlocks with a code and Cigarettes shields the pad from me so I can’t see him type. He pulls me in, letting go of the rope as he locks the gate behind us. There’s some bare ground, leaves strewn around, and the dirt digs into the scrapes on my knees and hands. The shed is small, painted red, with a single window on the side. Cigarettes is in it, throwing things around it sounds like as metal clatters together. I take the opportunity to stand and a breeze reminds me just how exposed I am. I shield my nipples from the wind, but there’s no reprieve, and Cigarettes pokes his head out. He shakes it when he sees I’m standing end exits the shed, grabbing the collar and dragging me into his personal space. He reeks of stale smoke and his teeth are yellowed.

“What did I say?!”

He’s yelling and part of me says I should be afraid, but where fear once was I find only a numbness. He throws me onto the floor of the shed and I skid slightly. There are chains bolted into the concrete, four total, with cuffs to match the collar at the ends. He kneels over me, straddling my waist. I push at his legs and arms as he attempts to wrangle me into the shackles. I’m yelling, screaming, at him.

“He’ll find me and kill you! He’ll kill you and let me watch!”

This gives Cigarettes pause. He reaches into his pocket to take out James’ tags.

“You think he’s looking for you? Do you think Pierce hasn’t given him some new plaything to spoil? He’s forgotten you exist,” Cigarettes spits at me. He throws the tags down next to me.

“She’s a pretty little thing, blonde with a nice ass, and you oughta see how much he dotes on her. Calls her his little angel and bought her a ring even. He’s forgotten all about any promises he made to you sweetheart. Best accept the reality of yer situation.”

I bite my lip, pausing just long enough for Cigarettes to get the shackles onto my wrists. I kick at him.

“You lie. He’d never forget me!”

It’s a halfhearted statement. James could have very well moved on. Pierce could have given him someone new to distract him from me disappearing. Maybe Steve hadn’t forgotten. Cigarettes wrangles me some more and shackles my ankles too. He leaves, locking the shed and then the gate. I watch the light fade as night falls. I let myself cry, exhaustion taking over and pulling me into sleep.


	10. Hope is a Dangerous Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kali finds out exactly how Cigarettes operates.

I’m chained in the shed for two more days before we move. It’s the truck bed again for me, but the drive is significantly shorter. I’m presented with clothes for the trip: a plain black shirt and black jeans. No shoes, but I’ll take what I can get. Cigarettes forces me to leave James’ tags behind, despite a fight which ends with a chipped tooth for me. We arrive at an airstrip, unmanned, and he tosses me into the back of a cargo plane with my wrists bound together. When I kick him shortly before take off, he chains my ankles to the floor of the plane. We take off and fly for what feels like a few hours. We land at another airstrip, take the truck a few more hours, and stop on a small farm. There’s around ten cows grazing in a field which runs along the gravel road, leading to a traditional looking farmhouse. The barn is rundown, ready to blow over if someone sneezes too hard, and Cigarettes breathes in deeply as we stand in the driveway of the property.   
“Was raised here. Inherited it when Daddy died, god rest ‘is soul.”  
He pushes me along the driveway until it turns to a dirt path leading to the barn. Up close it’s much less dilapidated looking. In fact, new wood board litter the outside and the roof has shining new aluminum sheets decorate the roof. The floor is concrete, littered with hay, and there’s a distinct shit smell in the air. There’s a hay loft which gives way to a high ceiling, sun beams filtering through cracks in the roof to reveal the dust floating in the air. A large hook hangs from a pulley running the length of the barn. I blink away flashes of the hook from the playroom. One wall is lined with stalls, a large cage finishing out the line. It’s not chain link, but barred with a solid door. It’s old fashioned, a skeleton key type of lock, and we come to a stop in front of it. There’s a pile of hay in one corner, a bucket in the other, and I wonder if Cigarettes thought the Zola treatment was breaking me. He seems unaware the method isn’t affective. Nevertheless he pushes me in and leaves me for a little bit. When he returns, he has a dark something coiled in one hand and a bit of rope in the other. He uses the rope to bind my hands and pulls the hook down to hang me by my arms. If I really stretch, my toes will brush the floor, but it hurts my arms to try. He snakes the other item across the floor and I realize it’s a whip. It’s long, with a few strips of leather at the end which glint in the light. There’s little pieces of metal embedded in the leather. Cigarettes comes up next to me, frowning slightly.   
“Think ol’ soldier boy is gonna care to come after you? Think he’s gonna come find you out here? Or you gonna be a good thing for me and submit?”  
I spit at him. The first whip rips a hole in the jeans along my calf. I let out a high groan.   
“Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”  
He pulls a knife out of a holster on his thigh and drags the back fo the blade along my cheek.   
“See I don’t git into all that fuckin’ ‘em ‘til they can’t take no more bullshit. I’m where Pierce sends the lost causes. I tie up the lose ends and you?”  
He used the blade to point at me. I get a flash of déjà vu.   
“You’ve bin a thorn in Pierce’s side since ol’ Tony decided he didn’t feel like sharin’ with the family. I’m just having some fun taking out the thorn.”  
He gives me another whip. This one catches my now stomach, but it’s not as deep as the one on my calf.   
“Keep talkin’, I’ve got all the time in the world to break you.”  
Another whip and my back is on fire. It’s deep, for sure, and if I were a betting person, I’d say it’ll need stitches were this a hospital going situation. Three more, all back to back, which hit my legs. More open cuts, more blood.  
“What’s the point of giving me clothes if you’re just going to ruin them?”  
His response is a hard whip across my back again. I let out a cry, cursing myself for showing emotion and cursing the pain.   
“Go on, let it out. Nobody’s gonna hear you out here.”  
Rapid fire whips, metal in my skin being ripped out and coiling back to his side. He hangs the whip on the wall, leaving me on the hook. My shoulders ache, the hook seeming to pull harder and harder the longer I hang.   
“When yer shoulders pop out, you won’t be able to keep quiet any longer.”  
He exits the barn, the door thudding as he secures it shut. The little bit of light which has broken through the roof continues to fade until I’m left in the dark. The barn door opens again, cattle streaming in and resting on the hay opposite the stalls. Cigarettes puts a mom and baby in one of the stalls. He comes up to me, examining the whip marks, running his finger along the one on my back. The touch stings and I groan again. He’s smirking, mouth twisting across his face, and he shushes me.   
“Don’t bother the cows, they get difficult when they’re tired.”  
I make a noise in the back of my throat.   
“You don’t know the definition of difficult yet.”  
I take what little energy I have to kick the back of his leg. His knee buckles, crashing into the concrete. He yells, holding a fist to his mouth to stop more noise. His knife blade flashes out and moves quickly across my stomach. My previously shallow whip wound has blood bubbling to the surface rapidly. Cigarettes cleans the blade on his jeans before limping out, muttering the whole time. Watching the blood from my stomach begin to drip makes me dizzy and I close my eyes. I drift in and out as light returns to the barn, too uncomfortable to really sleep. My shoulders don’t “pop out” during the night and I thank whatever lucky star prevented it. The cows are up and ready for a bit before the barn door creaks open to let them out. They brush past me, soft hide serving as a reminder there are good things in the world, no matter how few I’ve seen. Cigarettes leads them out, returning after a while to assess the state of my whip marks.   
“Yer a tough one, I’ll give you that.”  
He sounds a little impressed.  
“Shoulders usually give way half way through the night.”  
It’s not directed at me, but it’s definitely meant to spook me.   
“Told you I’d be difficult.”   
He snorts, uncoiling a hose and screwing it into a tap in the wall. He sprays me down, the water draining into a hole in the floor. It’s only slightly pink, most of my blood now dried into the clothes. The water is cold and I, now drenched in it, am cold too.   
“Thought ‘bout what you said ‘bout the clothes. Figure yer right and don’t need ‘em.”  
The pocket knife is out again to create little tears. The rest comes off in his hands with loud rips. If I squint, I see Anthony’s face on his. He hoses me off again for good measure and then takes a moment to look me over. He takes me off the hook, my shoulders screaming in relief as my arms fall to my sides. He pushes me to the cage, using the rope binding to keep my arms elevated behind my head, and the position forces me to keep kneeling. Everything hurts, but my arms most of all. He puts a bag over my head and I thrash against the bars, trying to kick at I’m without hurting my arms further. I hear the hose start again and confusion forces me to pause. The hose again? Maybe he has a high pressure attachment and is going to pressure wash my back cut. I brace myself, but am instead greeted with my head being tilted backwards aggressively. There’s water on the top of my head. It floods down my face, the bag clinging to my skin, and, stupidly, I inhale from the shock. Water is in my mouth, the bag stuck to my lips, and I gasp again. No air breaks through the barrier of the cloth. The water stops for a moment, draining from around me and I get a chance to gulp in air. I cough, sputtering out curses at him. No response. The water starts again and I manage a deep breath, holding it in until I can’t anymore. My nose is running, eyes squeezed shut so tightly my head hurts, and I wonder if this is enough to kill me. I pull away from the iron grip on the bag, my shoulders crying out as I do. A loud crack in one causes a scream. It’s garbled from the water in my mouth. There’s a boot against my back which pushes me forward a little. Another crack from the other. The water stops, my bindings cut, and I slump forward. My arms are immobile in their sockets, swinging wildly as I hit the ground. The pain is blinding. The bag is taken off my head and I flinch away from the sudden light. Stars freckle my vision as I look up to see Cigarettes standing over me.   
“They all break, in the end.”  
His boot collides with my face. I taste blood. I manage to lean against the hay pile in the corner and look up at him. I spit blood on the floor near his feet.  
“What makes you think this breaks me?”

***  
The water treatment becomes the daily occurrence. Some nights he leaves me to dry out without undoing the ropes or taking off the bag. My head is never in the moment, to distracted by the dizziness of hunger. The water I manage to swallow keeps me from completely losing it. I lose track of how long I’ve been at the farm. When the water treatment isn’t happening, I’m hanging from the hook. My shoulders have no time to heal as he continues the campaign of abuse. I lose my composure when he takes a knife to the scabbed over whip mark on my back. It becomes a game to him. How far can he push me until I let lose a cry or tears? He asks me questions throughout.   
“Who are you?”  
I’m supposed to say no one.   
“Is anyone coming to save you?”  
I’m supposed to say no.  
“Does anyone care about you anymore?”  
I’m supposed to say no.   
“What are you?”  
I’m supposed to say nothing  
He stops keeping the cows in with me after the reopening of my whip mark. I have no strength to fight, barely any voice to snap at him when he taunts me, and his constant reminding of imminent death becomes the light at the end of the tunnel. He mentions James now and again, but I’m too tired to bite at the bait.   
No one.   
He brings out a tripod camera one day as he hangs me from the hook.   
“We’ll give ol’ soldier boy a show to watch once yer gone.”  
Nothing.   
It’s the whip again. Screams again. Tears again. He takes me down and I crumple to the floor. He pokes at my face with the toe of his boot, shoving the camera in my face.   
“Go on, talk to yer soldier boy.”  
I raise my face to look into the lens. I do my best to look past it, to convey something I can’t quite describe but something he would would understand. I want him to know I still believe in him. To know I still…  
He leaves me for a long time after the photo/video shoot. There’s tires on gravel at some point, then silence. The sun rises again before the tires return. They’re louder, much louder, and multiple doors shut when they stop. The barn doors creak open, but I can’t summon the energy to lift my head. One of my eyes has swollen shut, making it more difficult to see the figures lining up in front of the cage. There’s mumbles from multiple voices.   
“Jesus Christ.”  
“Buchanan’ll kill us all.”  
The mumbles fall silent as two figures enter the cage.   
“You’ve done well, but he really needs to believe it. I don’t know if this will do it.”  
I know the voice. I turn my head slightly to look Pierce in the face.   
“Ah, so she lives.”  
I spit at him with the little gusto I have. It lands nowhere near him and he lets out a small chuckle. He comes over, leaning in to assess exactly how damaged I’ve become. I do my best to glare, but it’s difficult with only one eye. He touches my shoulders and I grimace.   
“It’s a good job. Very good, but like I said, he really has to believe it.”  
Cigarettes is nodding, scratching his chin. He steps forward and puts a boot on my hip. He crunches down on it and I let out a yell.   
“Hips aren’t fragile enough to break. Won’ be in time for yer meetin’.”  
Pierce is nodding, adjusting his glasses. He reaches out of the cage and is handed a crowbar. I’m pushing back against the hay with the bit of strength I have, trying to distance myself from Pierce. He’s taken off his suit jacket and his rolling up the sleeves on his button up. Pierce comes forward, flexing a little as he grips the bar with both hands. He brings it down on my right knee and I scream. It’s an involuntary sound and I don’t realize it’s come out until the echo gets back to me. My eyes water and I’ve got starred vision again. The crowbar is coming down again onto my other knee. The kneecaps poke out at odd angles, blood trickling down my shins. I’m shaking, violently, and there’s murmurs from outside the cage. The crowbar keeps coming, the final blow knocking my face to the side. Another figure joins the group outside as Pierce wipes his face with a handkerchief.   
“That should do it,” he says, motioning to the new figure to join them in the cage. He has light hair and a well-groomed beard, a camera around his neck. He comes up close, snapping photos. My once good eye has blood fogging the vision, but I make out his face.  
You know him.  
He’s got the camera a little further away now, shooting video for Pierce.   
“Anything to say, my dear?”  
My neck hurts too much to turn it towards him. I have no words left. Pierce takes this as a victory. The man with the camera hesitates before following.   
“Finish it and take care of the remains.”  
Cigarettes nods as everyone else files out. Tires on gravel again, fading into the distance. Cigarettes returns. A gun cocks outside the cage. I prepare for the shot.   
I’m ready.


	11. Recovery (beginnings)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kali’s frustration with her situation and trauma comes to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, author here. When talking about Steve, think the look C. Evans sported in the movie Gifted.

I expect more pain when the shot rings out. It doesn’t come and I wonder if I’ve hit the end of my ability to feel. It’s the thud which catches my attention, makes me turn to see Cigarettes fall through the cage door. Blood is pooling under his chest and his hand twitches a little as he looks at me. There’s fear there, and realization, as whoever is standing outside leans down to look at him. Their camera falls forward from the strap on their neck. They’re nonchalant about stepping over him to squat next to me. Their hand cradles the back of my head gently as they lift me off the hay pile. They say nothing as we walk out. The sun is setting, orange light silhouetting a large object out in the field. People are rushing from it, taking me from the camera man and putting me against something hard. Something soft is strapped across my legs and shoulders as I’m loaded in the object with them. When they start the blades I feel ridiculous for not recognizing the copter. We get up in the air and the poking begins. It hurts, but I don’t have it in me to respond. The people with me are asking questions, but I don’t process them in time to answer. The words fly over me, as if they’re asking each other instead.   
“Can you feel this?”  
“Can you hear me?”  
“Can you tell me your name?”  
_My name?_  
“Can you tell me your name?”  
I_’m no one. _  
_I’m nothing_.  
They give up their questions when I don’t answer them. They warn me about pain, but it doesn’t prep me for putting my shoulders back in place. I scream when they do it and there’s shushing from the corner, someone’s hands on either side of my head, as I force my tears back.   
“It’s okay, it’s alright. You couldn’t have been more gentle about it?”  
“It’s a bad dislocation, irritated from all the antagonizing by that guy. We’re doing our best.”  
“I know…I know, I’m sorry. Thank you.”  
The hands disappear and the shadow returns to the corner. We land at some point, fluorescents replacing the dark and I turn away from the light when it floods over me. People are running up to the bed they’ve put me in. Someone puts an IV in my arm, another bandages my shoulders, and others poke at me here or there. When they finish, I’m left in a room. It’s similar to the exam room I met Sharon in, but there’s more equipment around me. They put a gown and blanket on me at some point and I let myself sink against the pillows behind me. The fluorescents are still blinding and I squeeze my eyes shut to make them disappear.   
“Too bright?”  
I jump and lean away from the voice in the doorway. I blink to focus and recognize the camera man. He shuts off half the lights in the room and comes to stand next to the bed.   
“Do you know me?”  
I stare at his face. It’s familiar. It’s kind and welcoming, but determined. I nod.   
“Can you tell me my name?”  
_You know him.   
Say something._   
“Where is James?”  
It’s not what he’s looking for, but it’s something.   
“He’s not here right now.”  
I see him chew on the inside of his lip. He knows something, maybe where James is, but he’s not sharing.   
“Do you remember me?”  
_Yes, tell him you know him._   
“You’re Steve. You know James. Where is he?”  
There’s warmth in my chest, a longing to see James and know he’s okay. Steve says nothing for a moment before sighing.   
“I’m not really sure to be honest with you. See, the thing is, when Pierce showed James what they’d done he-“  
Steve pauses and takes a minute to choose his words carefully.  
“James did what he does best.”  
_A bloodbath, then_.   
“Listen, we can talk about all that in a little bit, but first I need to ask you some things.”  
I scratch at my bandages, not looking at him. I don’t want to answer questions. I want to see James. I want to go somewhere safe and quiet. I want to be held and have him kiss my head, whisper apologies for everything they’ve done to me.   
“I need to know if you can tell me your name. Your real name, not anything anyone from Pierce’s organization ever called you. I need you to tell me what you remember about life before the organization, how you got into it, and who brought you in. I haven’t been…I haven’t been truthful about who I am, at least, not to you. James knew, it’s why he was so-is so, really, hellbent on getting you out.”  
Steve reaches into his pocket and takes out something gold. He holds it up for me to see. It’s a police badge, from New York, and I stare at it.   
“I’ve been undercover for a long time and with James’ help, we’d been raiding warehouses to get to who was behind Pierce’s trafficking. We thought, maybe, we could put a stop to it and bring charges against them. Have you ever been in a place like a warehouse?”  
A cop? And James worked with him? I feel…embarrassed. To know he was reporting back the things he saw, the things I went through, to some unknown task force. Embarrassment turns to anger, but a part of me knows I shouldn’t be angry with Steve. I shove that part away and turn away from Steve as much as I can.   
“I know you’re upset. I know it’s a lot to take in, but there’s a lot of other girls out there just like you who haven’t been given to the organization yet. They still have a chance.”  
I flash him a glare.   
“A chance? A chance at what? Getting abused in the system? Getting turned loose at eighteen without the ability to do anything on their own? A chance to sell themselves before Pierce or Zola gets their chance?”  
Steve blinks, a bit stunned at my outburst.   
“Is that what they told you when Anthony took you?”  
I turn away again, squeezing my eyes shut to try to shove away the memory. The car in front of the house was the nicest I’d ever seen in the neighborhood and I was so confused when Anthony guided me to it.   
“I’m going to take care of you from now on.”  
I had shaken my head, a little scared, and turned back to the house. The other kids were at the window, watching with big eyes and skinny faces.   
I don’t know you, I had said, determined not to walk into something dangerous. I’d been stealing, spent nights at the juvenile jail downtown, and I knew what it meant to get wrapped up in things bigger than yourself. People died like that, and I didn’t want to end up in a situation like that. If only I’d known. He’d taken me to a boutique-type store on the way back to his house. He spent hundreds to build me a wardrobe any girl my age could have only dreamed of. The house was so big, the bedroom I was given so lavish, and when he told me I could have anything I wanted, I thought I’d hit the jackpot. It was the jackpot, until my sixteenth. We had a party, just me and him, after my tutoring lessons were done with. When we finished with cake he’d taken me downstairs for the first time.   
“This will be our playroom. It’s a special place where special things happen.”   
I hadn’t understood. He’d guided me in and I couldn’t have named anything in it. When I settled my bewilderment on the bed frame, I’d backed away. He was ready, behind me with ropes for my wrists and legs. I cried for what felt like days, even after he’d finished. I yelled when he came back, told him I’d die before letting him hurt me again. He ignored me, throwing me in a dog kennel at the foot of the mattress and leaving me there for three days without any contact.   
“Hey, you with me?”  
Steve’s voice splinters in, the memory disappearing as I focus back into the present.   
“You said a name I haven’t heard before. Zola? Who is he?”  
I stare at my lap and furrow my brows. The bodies on the floor of that kitchen flash across my mind. The girls in cages, all the humanity drained from them to be cogs in Zola’s machine.  
“He was who they gave me to when I went to the bakery. They were waiting and when they grabbed me, he was the one Pierce gave me to. They put me in a building with others, but I was by myself. They were packed in. It was…”  
The rights words to finish the sentence don’t come to me. Steve nods, writing things on a little notepad.   
“Okay, I know it’s hard and uncomfortable, but I need you to tell me what happened when they came and got you for the first time.”  
I recounted what I’d told James. The envelope, the house mom’s face when she opened it, and how nervous I’d been to get in the car.   
“He was so much bigger than me. I couldn’t‘ve run if I tried. It was so easy. I was always hungry, always wanting what other people had, and he…he would just hand it to me.”  
Steve looks confused.   
“I thought you were in that room. No offense, but it doesn’t seem like he was pampering you.”  
“It wasn’t like that, not in the beginning. I had a private tutor who visited every afternoon to teach me. There were chefs in the kitchen to make us food and people who cleaned the house. He bought me new clothes, the best clothes, and I had my own room. It had the biggest end I’d ever seen and it was all for me. He was kind, in the beginning.”  
“What changed?”  
“I turned sixteen. I stayed in the playroom after that. No more fancy food or clothes. I was just… he would just…”  
Steve nods and doesn’t make me continue.   
“You saw him give the money to the woman at the house?”  
I nod. Steve looks back over his notes before standing and heading for the door. I must put on a face because he pauses before leaving.   
“I’ll be back soon, okay? I’ll tell the nurses to come in and check on you so you’re not by yourself all the time.”

***

  
Steve is true to his word. He’s back within a few hours and stays with me as people come and go. Someone in a coat examines my shoulders and tests my range of motion, which hurts enough to elicit a yelp. Steve bristles at the sound. The coat notices and apologizes, a bit nervously, before quickly leaving. Another person comes in, no coat this time, and explains to me my body had gone into something called “ketosis” because I hadn’t been fed. She shows me a chart of my fat and muscle ratios versus those of a healthy person. I don’t understand what all of it means, but I get the general gist. My shoulders will heal completely within the next three months, but I only have to sling them for a few days and can do most everything again within two weeks, but I’m not supposed to lift heavy things until they’ve completely healed. Another coat explains I have to have surgery to put my knees back together, as they’re shattered and will need some metal rods to be put back together properly. I can’t have the surgery until my body is out of the ketosis process. They feed me through a tube, some sort of meal solution, which is meant to help me regain normal body fat levels. One of the people offers an estimate of three weeks before I can be sent to a physical therapy center to stay while my knees heal. Steve stays with me as much as he can, racing between the hospital and the local police department to keep them updated on the things I’ve told him. My frustrations with James’ absence only grows the more people poke or prod at me.   
“Why hasn’t he come?”  
Steve’s expression is a bit pained at my question. He knows where he is, what he’s doing, but he still won’t tell me anything. He doesn’t have a real answer for me. Instead, he changes the subject to make sure I’m comfortable or whether I need more pain medication. When it’s decided I’m well enough to have my knees put back together, Steve stays with me until someone physically stops him. I look back to see a hardened expression. I’d seen it before, from James, but the more Steve stayed with me the more he had it too. It’s protective, a little dark, and we maintain a split second of eye contact before the doors swing shut. I see the gallery when they wheel me into the surgery room and Steve is already sitting front and center. He gives a small wave and I respond with a small smile. Someone asks if I’m ready and puts a mask over my mouth and nose. I’m supposed to count down from one hundred, but I only get to seventy five before drifting off. When I come to again, I’m back in my room. My legs have large black braces around my knees, making it difficult to move. Steve is dozing in the seat in the corner. It’s night, past ten, which tells me the night nurse has already done rounds. Despite this, someone walks in around ten thirty. They’re wearing scrubs, black, and a surgical mask across their mouth. They’re tall, with dark hair cropped short in a buzz. Heavy boots thud on the ground with every step. I know they don’t belong and I open my mouth to call for Steve.  
“Hey, cookie, don’t blow my cover, now.”  
He wraps me in a tight hug, which hurts a little, but I don’t let go when he pulls away.   
“Oh, babydoll, what have they done to you?”  
I show him the braces and he puts his hand on one of my knees.   
“I’m so sorry, for all of this. I never should have left you alone.”   
His voice is soft, on the verge of breaking, and it tears me apart.   
“I left. I got caught. I should have listened to you.”  
His eyes flash up to mine, then to Steve, who stirs a little in his chair.   
“Don’t ever think any of this was your fault. I’m taking care of it. I’ll take care of you, but I can’t stay right now. Steve’s friends are looking for me.”  
He pulls the surgical mask down and places a soft kiss on my forehead. He touches my head, fingers running over the fuzz which had grown in.   
“They really did a number…”  
He trails off, resting a hand on my cheek. He rubs it with his thumb and I find myself leaning into the touch. I can just barely make out his face in the light from the hallway. He has a new scar along his temple, not quite faded into his skin. There’s a cut across his eyebrow, deep, and the eye under it squints a little.   
“Don’t go,” I whisper, holding onto his sleeve as he turns away. He pulls my hand off, kissing it gingerly and placing it back into my lap.   
“You’re breaking my heart, babydoll. I’ll be back, I promise. You’ve got Steve looking after you. He’ll keep you safe.”  
I wait until he’s out of sight to let myself cry. I wake up Steve with my hiccuping, who is stunned when I tell him about James’ visit. We don’t talk about it again, but Steve stops sleeping when I sleep and posts an officer outside the room.   
“He’s not going to hurt me,” I insist when Steve paces the room, mumbling to himself in frustration. He pauses, looks at me, then goes back to mumbling.  
“I don’t need guarding from him.”  
Steve sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.  
“I’m not concerned about you, I’m concerned about people who get in his way. James has a specific skill set and he doesn’t discriminate about using it against whoever gets in his way. He’s been a friend of mine for a long time, and he’s like a brother to me, but we do things very differently. It’s why I’m a cop and he’s...who he is.”   
I don’t press the issue any more. I’m approved for real food instead of the nutrition liquid they keep shoving down my throat. The cafeteria food they bring me is a blessing compared to how I’d eaten since leaving the apartment. Steve brings me a police department hoodie so I’m not always confined to only the hospital gown. It’s soft inside and smells like Steve’s cologne. A familiar warmth pools in my stomach when I put it on. I shake it away, surprised at Steve’s ability to inflict the familiar feeling the same way James did. The doctors explain I’m going to be moved to a physical therapy facility where I’ll work on rehabilitating my shoulders and knees. Steve is the one who takes me to the facility, arriving on my discharge day with real clothes and a duffle bag of items I recognize from the apartment.   
“These are my things.”  
Steve nods, eyes lighting up a little.   
“Yeah, I, uh, just grabbed the stuff I’d seen you use the most.”  
My tablet is laying on top, fully charged, and I run a finger along the edge. It’s a small gesture, but it’s the most kindness anyone had shown me, personally, in so long.   
“Thank you,” I choke out, swallowing the broken notes of my voice. We don’t ride in a cruiser. He helps me settle into a wheelchair and pushes me out to a dark town car.   
“Do you think James will visit me at this place?”  
I look up at Steve, who tries to fake a smile.   
“I’m sure he will if he can.”   
_That’s a no._   
The facility looks like another hospital on the outside, but the inside is painted soft pastel colors and carpeted to give off an air of comfort. My room is what I imagine a dorm might look like. Simple bed, desk, and a wardrobe at the end of the bed. They’re all wood, a light stain, and the floor has thin carpet on it. There’s a Jack and Jill bathroom, at least that’s what Steve calls it. I discover this means I share with the girl next door to me. The lady at the check in desk says I’ll be staying with them for three months. Steve senses my dread and puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I have a memory flash of sitting on the couch in Anthony’s house, Steve thumb brushing the back of my neck in a similar manner. A flush crawls up my chest and I find myself looking up at him again.   
“Don’t leave me here.”  
The lady looks a bit annoyed at my words, but I’m not focusing on her. Steve meets my gaze and his face crumples a little. He leans down to my level and gives me a soft smile.   
“There’s visiting hours every day. I’ll come see you.”  
I sprite of anger begins to throw a tantrum in my chest. It’s just another warehouse. Another building of bodies to hold me until I’m shipped off to the next convenient location. I want a home. The sprite grows into more of a gremlin and begins spitting brimstone.  
“What, like James is going to come see me?”   
Any resolve Steve had disappears in an instant, eyes crinkling at the edges as he tries to sympathize. It’s all pity. Pity for the injured, broken, thing in front of him. I don’t want it. I want to be a human being again. 


	12. Recovery (middle)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kali learns what it really means to get better.

Steve leaves me at the physical therapy facility, despite my vehement protests. They give me a better wheelchair which I can roll myself, but it’s difficult with my shoulders, and I end up being assigned a nurse-type person for the day. There’s a schedule everyone abides by, meant to provide structure for people who had spent months upon months in the hospital before coming here. Steve leaves me with homework.   
“I need you to try to remember your name, okay? Or come up with one for yourself if you can’t, because you’re a person and people need names.”  
_You’re a person._   
It’s the first time someone’s reminded me I’m actually worth the same as others in God knows how long. I think on it for a long time, staring at the ceiling in my room, concentrating on my bread memory. Does anyone say anything to me? Do I hear someone talking about me? I find nothing but the same bread smell and the feeling of sun on my face. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s also not what I’m looking for, and more frustration fuels the angry gremlin which has begun lurking in my chest all the time. We’re meant to have a group therapy type of gathering everyday around three, but I resist going until my nurse-type person forces me, a week or so after arriving. She’s Hispanic, hair dyed to have a purple tint, with a tattoo of a rose on her ankle. It’s simple, the lines a little blurry, and she tells me she got it on her first Spring Break after high school. When I ask her what a spring break is her face goes a bit stony.   
“You’re going to group.”  
I don’t say anything in response, but she pushes the chair up to the bed nonetheless and begins to lift me off. I push her, not even realizing I’ve done it until she stumbles back. She steadies herself, brushing it off as nothing, but I give a soft apology.   
“Ah, so you do talk.”  
I hate the statement. I talk, I could talk all the time if I wanted to, but I don’t enjoy anyone I’ve met, therefore no reason to talk.   
“I have a boy like you, _penoso_, but he will talk for days if you say the right things.”  
I make a mental note to look up what a penoso is when I have tablet time later. I’m allowed to have the tablet for half an hour each day, after physical therapy, a reward for trying to make my body work the way it should.   
“Come on, if you push yourself then they’ll give your shoulders a break later.”  
I comply, if begrudgingly, and even roll myself down the hallway a little bit. I need her help getting up the ramp to the common area, but I continue on my own to the circle of chairs and couches. It’s meant to be a circle, at least, if a bit oblong. It’s to make everyone look at each other and focus on listening. Others file into the seats until there’s seven or eight total. One of the girls has dark hair, grown out in a natural style to crown her head in a halo of curls. Jealousy rears it’s head for a moment as I run a hand over my peach fuzz crown. I’d pulled a large purple sweater on over my leggings, the excess fabric enveloping my upper half almost completely, but I find I still feel very vulnerable as the counselor begins the session. The other people here aren’t like me. These are car crash and fire victims, cancer survivors learning to use prosthetics or simply regaining strength, a veteran who survived a bombing. Everyone goes around to say their name and why they’re here. Bridgette, Sam, Jason, Tobias, Penelope, and Eliza. Penelope is the girl with the halo. I’m the last one to speak.  
“My knees are broken and my shoulders are messed up.”  
The counselor prods a little, asking how my injuries occurred. I struggle to hold my head up as I sort through the words to describe how I came to be there.   
I pissed off a mob boss and he took a crowbar to my legs.   
A shit stain made human tortured me.   
“I made some poor decisions.”  
There’s a smattering of laughs. I have to remind myself it’s because they’re genuinely amused by my wording, not because they find what happened to me amusing.   
“And your name?”  
The counselor smiles, she’s well meaning, but I can tell she has no idea who I am. According to the purple-haired woman they’ve been calling me Patient X out loud and Jane Doe in my medical files. I think, trying desperately to come up with something, anything to say.   
“It’s alright, you don’t have to share if you don’t want to,” someone says. I flash a small smile, feeling forever indebted to whoever had spoken. They continue on with the conversation, the counselor asking each if they’re struggling with anything, how their physical therapy-which she calls rehabilitation-has been going, and if they have anything motivating to share.   
“My commander called to check in on me, see how I’m doing.”  
“My sister came to one of my rehab sessions and I got to show her how well I’m doing.”  
“I have my last skin graft in a week.”  
Everyone gives soft snaps after someone finishes, a sign of support. I realize even if I’d spoken, I wouldn’t have anything to tell. I’m too angry with Steve to let him see me when he tries to visit. I haven’t progressed in rehab. I spend most of the days sleeping or being woken up to eat or take meds. They have me on some pain medication and a sleeping pill. The person I see most is the purple-haired Hispanic woman. She convinces me to attend the group sessions a couple times a week and assures me I don’t have to talk. Despite my refusal to see him, Steve leaves little gifts with the nurses for me. One is a blanket, light pink with little tassels and poms around the edges, and a box of truffles. I take the truffles to group the next day and give one to each person. I still don’t say anything about my experience, but everyone smiles at me more, and I even get involved in the snapping. I use my tablet to look at baby name websites, trying to think up something to call myself. It’s odd, having to name-or rather, rename-yourself. I take to standing in front of the mirror in my wardrobe and saying names aloud, like trying on a shirt to see if it fits.   
“Elizabeth.”  
I could go by Liz, or Lizzie, or just Beth.  
“Victoria.”  
Tori or Vicki for short.  
“Jordan.”  
A country in Asia, according to my tablet.   
“Alexandria.”  
A city in Egypt.   
“Thalia.”  
It’s supposed to mean joyful and was the name of one of Zeus’ daughters. It occurs to me I’d rather be a god myself than a the child of one.   
“Charlotte.”  
A French name meaning free. I find an obscure site full of African names and mumble them to myself.   
“Kali.”  
It means energetic. I am not energetic. I stare at my reflection in the mirror.   
_Kali_.   
I scroll over a couple more names, but come back to it.   
_Kali_.   
I run my hand over my peach fuzz hair.   
_Kali_.   
Notice my bones aren’t sticking out through my shirt.  
_Kali_.  
Meet my reflection’s eyes.   
_Kali_.

*****  
I finally make some progress in my rehab sessions. My braces now removed, I learn to walk without them on and rebuild muscle in my legs. It’s small at first, struggling to put weight on them without the support of someone. They hold my torso steady as I struggle, offering me encouragement. When I can finally use my arms to support myself on the guiding bars, things begin to move faster. It’s three weeks in when I’m approved to use my arms to help and I make it across the guiding bars with only a thirty second break in the middle. It’s a small victory, as the space is only a few feet long, but I revel in it for as long as I can. When I stumble to the end, I look up to see Steve watching through the window to the hallway. He’s smiling directly at me. I hadn’t seen him since I was checked-in. I scramble into my chair and roll out to the hall. We go in silence back to my room, my hands shaking a little as I propel myself along. I realize my shoulders are sore only after we stop and he pushes me inside. I clamber onto the bed, turning to sit facing him.   
“Looks like you’re having a good day.”  
I nod, uncertain what else to say.   
“Looks a lot better than Tuesday’s session.”  
I look up, surprised.   
“You were there?”  
I fell on Tuesday, my shoulders faltering halfway along the bars.   
“Just because you didn’t see me didn’t mean I left. They told me I could watch your rehab.”  
I feel a bit embarrassed.   
“You didn’t have to do that.”  
Steve smiles softly.   
“Just because I don’t have to do something doesn’t mean I won’t do it. You needed support and I was here to give it, whether you wanted it at the time or not.”  
I play with the poms on my blanket, not wanting to look at him. I’m upset, but not with him, with myself for taking out my anger on him.   
“I’m sorry. I should’ve seen you when you came to visit.”  
Steve shakes his head, putting a hand on mine.   
“Don’t apologize for making a decision you were comfortable with, alright? You didn’t want to see anyone. I respect that and I’m not going to force you to see me, or anyone else for that matter, if you don’t want to. Recognizing your boundaries, becoming comfortable with making decisions on your own, is part of rehab too. Isabel told me you’ve been going to the group therapy meets a couple days a week. How’s it going?”  
I shrug, fiddling with the poms a little more.   
“I don’t talk, but everyone seems nice. They liked the truffles you left.”  
Steve laughs.  
“You gave away those truffles? Were you really that upset?”  
It’s a jest and I make an indignant face.   
“Yeah, well, I was feeling a little spiteful! I still ate one.”  
Steve notices my annoyance and stops his laughing.   
“Hey, it’s alright. I’m not upset with you, or anything, I just find it a little funny is all.”  
He stays another half hour or so before leaving.   
“I’ll come back tomorrow, okay? If you want to see me, cool, if not then I’ll be back the next day. I’ll see you tomorrow, maybe.”  
There’s a pause before maybe. Were he talking to someone else, it’s where a name would be.   
“Kali.”  
He stops on his way through the door.   
“What?”  
“I decided. My name is Kali.”  
His face splits into the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. It’s an expression of pride, maybe? He gives a short nod.   
“Kali. I like it.”  
I replay him saying the name, my name, over and over in my head until I fall asleep. The warm feeling in my stomach returns as I drift off and I don’t shove it away this time.

*****  
“Hey. Hey, wake up. Wake up!”  
I’m being shaken softly. It’s the purple-haired nurse-type person. Isabel, Steve had called her. I rub my eyes as she lifts me into my chair.   
“I can do it myself, it’s okay.”  
She’s shaking her head, mumbling in Spanish.   
“I know, but we don’t have time.”  
Don’t have time?  
She’s pushing me into the hallway. There’s a siren blaring, lights flashing, and I shield my eyes.   
“What’s happening?”  
I have to yell a little to be heard over the siren. Isabel is still mumbling to herself, lips moving silently under the siren noise.   
“It’s the fire alarm. We’re moving everyone outside. It’s alright, no need to worry, we’re just taking safety precautions.”  
The air outside is crisp and I regret not grabbing my blanket. The group people-friends?-are gathered together under a tree. Isabel takes me over to them, the veteran taking hold of my chair as she goes back for other patients. I look up to see the source of the alarm. It looks like it’s coming directly from the roof, orange and yellows spindles stretching into the sky, dancing in the wind. There are two trucks on the side of the building, ladders stretching up to battle the blaze. I can’t take my eyes off the fire. It’s enchanting, but there’s fear rising in my chest.   
_A gas explosion?_  
“It can’t be gas, they have systems for that stuff. The psych part is up there. Bet you someone started it, trying to get out cause they were a forced check-in.”  
_Someone starts it to break themselves out. Break someone else out. _  
I don’t know how I know, but I do.   
_James will do anything to anyone who gets in his way._   
I sit in silence, staring up at the smoke filling the sky. Sam coughs and the soldies, Jason maybe, moves the group away from the building a little more to keep us out of the smoky air.   
“Hey, you look really upset, are you okay?”  
Penelope is leaning down to look me in the eye. I want to tell her to stay away from me, to stay out of his way. I want to tell all of them they should leave me here because he’s coming. I’m scanning the edge of the building for something out of place, someone where they shouldn’t be, but all I find are scrub-clad workers racing in and out with patients. My breathing is still shallow, fast, and Penelope squats to focus me in.   
“Hey, hey, it’s alright. They’re getting people out and the firemen are working on putting it out. You need to slow your breathing. Here, watch this.”  
She pulls a stone on a chain out of her pocket, letting it swing in front of me. I watch it, trying to breath with the swings, but we’re interrupted by a nurse.   
“Hey, we’re moving everyone with wheels to the south side of the building.”  
I freeze completely, Penelope noticing my sudden tense up, as they all turn to look at the newcomer. I know his voice, his figure coming out of the dark, and I begin to shake. I shouldn’t be afraid, he won’t hurt me, but what would he do if they stopped him from moving me? Could he have done this to move me away from others? What else is he capable of doing to keep me to himself? In the process of spiraling, my breathing picks up again.   
“Hey, she’s not looking too good. What’s going on?”  
“She’s upset about the fire.”  
_No_.  
“I think she’s having a panic attack.”  
_Yes_.   
“She needs air.”  
_Yes_.   
“We have air tanks over with the other people. I’ll take her.”  
No. No, no no.   
He squats, pretending to check my pulse.   
“Hey, cookie,” he almost whispers, winking at me. There’s a smile growing under his surgical mask. I’m am afraid. Afraid of him. I concentrate on what I need to say, on what I need to do, and I roll myself back towards the group.   
“I can’t-You can’t-“  
I’m choking on the words. Penelope is on my side.   
“He’s going to get you away from the fire. He’s here to help.”  
No, no he’s not.   
“He doesn’t-He’s not-He can’t-“  
“Hey! Hey, what are you guys doing over here?”  
I breath for what feels like the first time. His cruiser pulls up beside us, lights flashing, and he gets out in full uniform.  
“Steve! Steve, it’s him! He did it! He’s here!”  
My outburst is a yell, a desperate cry for recognition, and I see James’ face fall. He takes the surgical mask off his face and tosses it aside. He’s kneeling next to me, hands clutching at mine. He’s confused, maybe angry, as he begins to plead his case.   
“Hey, I did this for you. I know you wanted out, it’s okay, I’m here to get you out. Cookie, babydoll, listen to me. It’s okay, I’m here now, it’s alright.”  
He’s got my face in his hands, rubbing my cheek with his thumb. Steve is standing over him, pulling him away.   
“Buck, tell me you didn’t. Please, tell me you didn’t do this.”  
“I’m keeping her safe!”  
“By setting the hospital on fire?!”  
“She’s safer with me than she is here! He’s still out there, looking for her, and she needs somewhere more secure than this!”  
“I’ve been looking after her.”  
“She needs me!”  
“I need to get better.”  
They both stop, inches away from each other as their fury mounts, and look at me.   
“What?”  
James is kneeling next to me again.   
“I need to get better. They’re helping me get better.”  
I feel the stares of the group behind me.   
“Cookie, you don’t need all this to get better. I’ll help you get better. Babydoll, I-“  
“Kali.”  
“What?”  
“My name is Kali.”  
“Right, whatever. Look, I’ll take you somewhere else. Somewhere safer.”  
_Right, whatever. _  
It hits me like a brick, knowing he’s too tunnel-visioned to acknowledge I have a name. I feel something sink in my chest. He’s still talking, babbling really, and I can’t take it any longer.  
“James, stop! I don’t need you to get better. I need doctors and rehab and group. You expect to go with you, just like that, after you’ve done this?”  
I gesture to the fire. It’s little more than smoke and embers now, but he knows I’m right.   
“Bucky, I have to take you in.”  
James’ face is twisting, anger and hurt crossing his expression in wave after wave. The other people in the group move to flank me. Steve moves forward to take James’ arms behind his back.   
“You’re choosing _him_?”  
James’ voice breaks as he speaks.   
“I’m choosing myself.” 


End file.
